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Against Rome |
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Back to Chapter 3 | Sections ii, iii, iv of this chapter Samples: IV. Vendorix, Southern
Gaul, i Near
the beginning of the month before September that the Romans called Sextilus—the
bright half of the Celtic month about to commence—Vendorix sat alone in the
four-pommel saddle on his small brown horse atop a long spiny ridge in the
foothills of the Pyrenees. Many miles from his home, he watched the endless
column of soldiers descend the pass from Spain into Gaul. He made no effort at
concealment, content to expose himself at the ridge’s peak, for only the day
before he had been in the soldiers’ camp in the pass, speaking with their
leader. He had nothing to hide from Hannibal. Well,
that was not precisely true, for Hannibal knew nothing of what Vendorix planned
to do when Hannibal passed by Vendorix’s own oppidum on his way to the
Rhodanus River. In
the valley below, some eighty thousand men strung out in a column at least six
miles long (if one could see it all in these foothills, which one could not),
accompanied by countless horses, mules, wagons, and at least forty elephants. These
men had been on the march for over two months, from a place called New Carthage
up the eastern coast of Spain. The dust obscured their numbers, but Vendorix had
been among them and, though he knew to Hannibal’s men he had looked rather
stupid, he knew very well how to estimate the size of an army—even one as
large as this. Although from his ridge the column was over a mile away, the
noise from so many men and animals, shields and armor rattling, mules bawling,
men shouting, filled the valley with a great buzz. Around
him, thousands of butterflies swarmed, a bright profusion of fluttery color in
some places nearly obscuring the granite shelf on which Vendorix sat his horse.
It reminded him of the odd, rather portentous circumstances in which he’d met
Hannibal. Vendorix
had approached Hannibal’s camp cautiously the day before, expecting to be
intercepted. Thus he was not taken by surprise when Hannibal’s Numidian
cavalry scouts found him and asked his purpose. Once
the perimeter scouts were satisfied that Vendorix was alone and he had explained
to them his purpose, they escorted him to see their commander. His command tent
occupied the center of a wide canyon, with a sizable space cleared around it
before the army’s tents on the periphery. The camp itself extended out of this
canyon in both directions, so that Vendorix could not tell its extent. But
clearly it was large. This Hannibal had many men. With
his escort, Vendorix found himself suddenly walking through a camp fogged with a
cloud of bright golden butterflies. Not far off, a small sea of gray humps
rolled atop majestic bodies, flickering in and out of his vision as the storm of
gorgeous insects swirled everywhere. The elephants stood like a field of animate
boulders on legs as thick as trees—the first he had ever seen. Astonishing
beasts, huge, thick, yet sinuously graceful in their movements. He wanted to
stop and gawk at them. One
of Vendorix’s escort tugged at his sleeve. He turned his eyes forward again. A
dark, square man with a blade of a nose had stepped out of the command tent. The
man was instantly wreathed in a brilliant corona of butterflies, yellow wings
dancing like flames about his head, a stunning image. He smiled, a broad sweep
of mouth that flickered into place like the insects, then melted away into
neutrality. Vendorix,
taken by the image of a man in flames, found that his own mouth had fallen open.
An omen surely, but of what? Vendorix could not fathom it. But he knew at least,
in that moment, that here was a man favored of the gods, perhaps a very great
man in the world. The
commander said something in a language Vendorix did not understand—Punic
perhaps, since Vendorix knew he was of Carthage. One
of the escort replied in the same language. Vendorix decided it was time to
announce himself. “I
am Vendorix, of the Volcae Arecomici,” he said. “Well,
Vendorix of the Volcae Arecomici,” the commander said, now in Vendorix’s own
tongue, and passably well. “I am Hannibal. What brings you to us?” “Romans.” “Welcome,
then,” Hannibal said, extending a hand, his smile returning, though his eyes
were still unreadable. Impressed
with the man, almost as much because of his linguistic talents as because of the
butterflies, Vendorix allowed himself to be taken into Hannibal’s
companionable arm and led into the tent. When
they had settled to talk, a servant brought them wine. Good wine, though
Vendorix preferred beer. They were alone. None of Hannibal’s lieutenants had
accompanied them into the tent. “Tell
me of these Romans,” Hannibal said. “Where?” “They’re
in Massilia. A consul named Publius Cornelius Scipio, with two legions, there
for a little over a month now.” “And
you know this how?” “I
went to see them for myself. It was not hard to learn the commander’s name,
nor the number of troops—about 25,000, I believe, in fifty or sixty ships.” “Any
idea why they’ve stayed in Massilia for so long?” “This
Scipio’s men are in need of training, I believe,” Vendorix said. “I got
close enough to watch them training—they looked green to me.” “Interesting.
So they’ve got some whiff of my coming, have they?” “Only
suspicions, according to what I was told in the city. They think you’re still
in northern Spain, but they worry you may be coming here.” “Good.
Excellent,” Hannibal said, now beaming with obvious pleasure. “I’ve
surprised them so far, then. But tell me, how did you know to come here?” “There
have been rumors across southern Gaul for months, General. I took the chance.” “Now,
then—why should I trust you?” Hannibal’s fierce eyes demanded a good
answer. “I
am Vendorix, of the Volcae Arecomici.” “So.”
Hannibal sat back in his chair and studied Vendorix for a long moment. Vendorix
waited patiently, not speaking. “You
must want something for yourself,” Hannibal said. Now
the crucial moment, as far as Vendorix was concerned. “One
thing only, General.” He wanted to phrase it just right. “Yes?” “I
want your assurances that you will not fight the Romans anywhere near my oppidum.” “Easy
enough, my friend Vendorix. I have no intention of fighting any Romans in Gaul
at all.” “Then
it’s true what the rumors are saying? You’re bound for Italy itself?” “Let’s
just say I want no part of the Romans in Gaul, shall we? Let the rest lie
unquestioned for now. But you do have my assurances. I will do my best not to
fight near your oppidum.” He pronounced the word correctly, seeming to
know what it meant. This Hannibal was well prepared, the owner of good
intelligence. So
they had talked further, about the location of Vendorix’s people, about what
Vendorix would provide when Hannibal’s forces came through, about how Hannibal
would respond to Gallic hospitality. Hannibal had sent him away with thanks and
a nice purse of silver, a small extra benefit that Vendorix had not expected. *
* * At
a slight noise from behind him, Vendorix turned to look along the ridge,
blanketed in gold. After a moment, a dozen riders suddenly appeared atop the
ridge, coming from nowhere he’d been able to see. He recognized them
immediately as some of Hannibal’s Numidians, superb cavalrymen from North
Africa west of Carthage. The men rode without saddles or bridles, wearing short
tunics, no armor, and carrying only a small, round shield and several javelins.
Their black hair was curled in tight ringlets. Vendorix
saw their postures relax as they recognized the Gallic chieftain who had so
recently visited their general’s camp. Vendorix recognized their leader,
Valga, having met him as well. “Well
done,” Vendorix called. “I neither saw nor heard your approach.” Actually,
he had heard. “Thank
you,” Valga replied, speaking Vendorix’s own tongue remarkably well.
“It’s a matter of pride.” “As
it should be.” “Beautiful,
are they not?” Valga swept an arm through the cloud of butterflies. “Yes.
I’d never seen anything like it before I met your general in a swarm of them
yesterday.” “And
your purpose up on this ridge?” the Numidian asked politely. “Oh,
it’s just that I’ve never seen so many men all in one place before. My
people are farmers and herdsmen, so we rarely see large crowds of people.” “An
impressive sight,” Valga said. “Yes,
I wanted to fix it in my mind before I go home, so I can tell my sons. My people
will little believe it until they see it for themselves when you pass through
our area.” After
a few more pleasantries, Vendorix said goodbye and began picking his way down
the ridge, gradually moving ahead of the great serpent below, and gradually
leaving behind the storm of gaily colored insects. Next section of IV. Vendorix, Southern Gaul, 218 B.C.
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