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Against Rome |
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Back to Chapter 4 | Sections ii, iii, iv, v, vi, vii, viii of this chapter Samples: V. Dorix, The Alps, 218 B.C. i “Dorix,
I’m not so sure about this,” Borix said, continuing his shocked looks at the
devastated landscape through which they passed. This was at least his tenth
comment on it, sounding more worried with each one. “Don’t
turn craven on me now.” Dorix found the destruction disturbing, too, but he
was not about to admit it. He quietly muttered prayers to his gods lest the
death around them weaken his resolve—and so, he kept his resolve strong. The
adventure had been his idea, though Borix had needed little convincing when they
were just starting out. But now— No,
Dorix was still committed to the adventure, but he suspected that if he gave
Borix the wrong opening, the conversation would turn to going home instead of
going on. He knew that was on Borix’s mind—had been for two days, at
least—but so far his twin had not said the words. Dorix prayed that he would
not, and so he took care not to give Borix an opening. “I’m
no coward, and you know it.” “Don’t
get excited. I didn’t mean anything—just buck up. We’ll catch up to
Hannibal soon now.” Yes—keep
Borix aimed forward. Keep him interested in the adventure. For this was not an
opportunity to pass up. How often did the next Alexander march through your oppidum,
bound for a grand war with Rome? They
rode along in silence for some time. “Dorix,
hear that?” Dorix
strained to hear whatever it was. Nothing.
Wait,
there. It was a kind of low hum. But what could that be? “I
hear it. Any idea what it is?” “I
think we’re starting to hear the army,” Borix said. “Remember how noisy
they were back home.” Dorix
did remember. He rode on, still straining to hear, to distinguish a voice or an
elephant’s cry, anything specific. By
late that afternoon, the hum had risen to a roar. Now they did begin to pick out
individual sounds: a tinny clattering that could be armor, possibly shouting,
and yes—the trumpeting of elephants. Close
now. And
then, there it was. They dipped down into a low valley, very green, lots of
trees. And lots of men and animals, all spread out in a great camp like the one
the boys had seen at home, many tents, men bustling everywhere, lots of dust. In
a moment, they were challenged by a sentry, who listened to their story, then
took them to see the leader of Hannibal’s Gallic contingent. That night they
found a place to lay out their bedrolls. They
had arrived on the 26th day of September, the day after the first of
Hannibal’s troops had crossed the river, and found they had missed the action
against the Gauls blocking the way. Well,
there would be more action ahead. Meanwhile, here they were! Other
Gauls with spirit were joining the march, too, and the twins were accepted
without question (even with a little deference, being twins). Versestus, the
Gallic officer who enlisted them, a tribesman of the Volcae Tectosages, took one
look at these two strapping young men, both standing three inches over six feet,
and sent them to march with the heavy infantry. To
their dismay, Versestus turned their horses over to the cavalry. But protesting
that they should ride with the cavalry did no good. Borix was close to weeping
when he said goodbye to his mare. “Don’t
worry, it will be all right,” said Dorix, who had given little thought to
losing his gelding. *
* * On
learning that the Romans were still somewhere near Massilia, Hannibal abandoned
his original plan: he’d hoped to cross the Rhodanus along the coastal route.
Only then would he turn north towards the Druentia River. Too close to the
Romans, he decided. He had to minimize the chance of discovery. He
veered north some twenty miles west of the river, striking it above the point
where the stream split into its delta, a few miles north of the Druentia. “We’ll
cross here,” he told his gathered lieutenants. “Maharbal, hire all the boats
you can find up and downriver—but don’t go far south looking for them. Stay
north.” *
* * Maharbal
kicked his horse away to begin the task. He liked challenging work. This would
be a far cry from anything an officer trained in the Sacred Band might ever have
expected to be doing. Hannibal—most emphatically not trained in the hotbed of
Carthage’s elite—made life interesting. Soon
Maharbal’s men were scattering up—and a little way down—the great river.
As the locals were boatmen carrying on a vigorous trade up and down the river
and along the seacoast, enough Spanish gold crossing enough outstretched Gallic
palms quickly produced hundreds of boats of all sizes, from ten-oared riverboats
down to canoes. Within two days of their arrival, the Africans were in
possession of most of the boats they would need. The local boatmen carried hefty
purses, big smiles, and an appropriately deferential manner. They
assured Maharbal they could carry his men across easily and safely. *
* * In
the two days during Maharbal’s search for boats, Hannibal surveyed his
situation as he walked among the men along the river. He had had the men make a
secure camp, for he knew that some of the Gauls in the area might well choose to
attack him. He’d arrived at the river close to a large village, but his scouts
told him that many of the dwellings in the vicinity—on the western side of the
river—were empty: the people had gone somewhere, but for now Hannibal didn’t
know where. This felt ominous to him, so he went about the camp strengthening
security. Although
Hannibal had begun this great journey with more than a hundred thousand men,
counting both infantry and cavalry, he now had something like sixty thousand.
Great losses, it might seem, but he was well satisfied with the attrition. He
knew perfectly well that the horde he had led north from New Carthage could not
all be taken all the way through the Alps. He needed some of them to garrison
northern Spain against the coming of the Romans—he’d left ten thousand
infantry to guard the passes through the Pyrenees. And,
to tell the truth, not all of Hannibal’s hundred thousand men were equally
reliable, or equally desirable. This made it necessary to trim his numbers
significantly as he went. He
wanted perhaps fifty thousand men once he got beyond the Rhodanus, the most he
felt he could manage to take through the Alps. So, by winking at Spanish
desertions on the march north to the Ebro River and beyond, and by releasing
some seven thousand reluctant Spanish tribesmen to go home, he pared his numbers
substantially once he’d had the use of them through much of southern Gaul. He
had also lost a few men here and there when he had to force his way through an
area with hostile inhabitants. Now
he must conquer the wide Rhodanus, which flowed out of the heart of Gaul to
empty through numerous mouths into the Mediterranean Sea. Looking
across the great river, Hannibal now saw throngs of aggressive Gallic
warriors—some of them the missing villagers from this side, no doubt. Starting
the crossing would be easy—landing on the other side was another matter. Because
he was crossing farther north than intended, he hadn’t prepared the way with
these people, the Cavares. No Carthaginian agents had preceded the army this far
upriver to grease the local tribes with gold and promises that they would not be
harmed by his passage. He was sure that the tribesmen milling about on the far
bank—some six hundred feet away—had nothing more in mind than the size of
Hannibal’s baggage train and the spoils to be had in taking it. Irritated
at this kind of delay, Hannibal decided upon a stratagem. He summoned Hanno, the
son of Bomilcar the Suffete, and gave the orders. “Take
guides, a thousand infantry, and boats for them. Go upstream by land, out of
sight of the far bank, and go only as far as necessary to find a safe crossing
point beyond the Gauls’ sight. Have the boatmen bring your boats upstream
empty and meet you at your chosen crossing. Get yourself into position to attack
the Gauls from behind three mornings from now. Then send me a smoke signal and
start your attack.” *
* * Off
went Hanno, a wiry man of thirty-five with deep eyes, a thin, hooked nose, a
neatly trimmed beard, and massive hands, delighted at the prospect of action. He
selected men from those still back behind the screen of trees along the river,
then led them around the first low hills flanking the stream. Before leaving, he
sent a dozen boats upriver, directing that they leave in ones and twos over the
next hour, moving as casually as possible, carrying only the boatmen. For
the infantry, the going was easy enough, and Hanno had cautioned them to be
quiet, though any noise they made just now would surely be drowned by the
inevitable racket of the main body of troops, who, even waiting relaxed for what
might come next, as most of the men were doing, were calling from group to
group, laughing, rattling their metal armaments as Hanno’s men passed behind
them to start up the river. It
was early afternoon when they departed, and Hanno kept them moving until two
hours before dark, a distance of perhaps twenty miles. Then he sent a runner
across to the river to call in the boats. When
he reached the bank, shielded by a stand of willows, he saw that he’d found a
good spot, for the river here divided around a small wooded island almost in the
center. Best of all, he would still have time to get perhaps half of his men
across to the island before dark, saving time tomorrow. There were only enough
boats to take perhaps fifty men across at a time. The narrower channels around
the island made for swifter water than downstream. With less suspended sediment,
it was also clearer than the deep, opaque brown-streaked water the men had seen
earlier at the crossing point downstream. While
the first to arrive on the island set up a camp in great stealth behind an
embankment and some trees along the south end, more were ferried over in shifts
and the boats then beached and hidden. With so many men, not all could be
transferred that night; some would have to remain on the western shore and cross
the next morning. Hanno
went among them urging the utmost quiet. It would not do to be discovered by
some passing Gaul. Hannibal’s whole effort to cross the river could be
endangered. They
passed a quiet night, with only a few very small shielded fires lit just long
enough to prepare a meal of wheat cakes to dip in olive oil. Then the men bedded
down each in a blanket or two under the stars, not having brought tents. The
next day they ferried over the remaining men early, then spent the early
afternoon crossing the eastern branch of the Rhodanus and began moving
downstream along the eastern shore. On this side, the terrain was rougher, so
they went slowly, reconnoitering constantly so as not to contact any Gauls too
soon. They made perhaps eight or ten miles before making another quiet camp,
this time with no fires and even more stringent imposed silence. The
following day, they reached the area just north of the tribesmen not long after
midday. It took them the rest of the day to get into the right positions without
being detected. This was a matter of camouflaging themselves with leaves and
mud, then creeping inches at a time to find a pool of shadow that would last, or
a clump of boulders, for often there were Gauls in view, though usually distant. Hanno
had the men split into two groups, one to target the barbarians, the other their
camp. Those targeting the tribesmen found a range of hills overlooking the shore
above the Gauls and dug in quietly, concealing themselves in stands of brush or
piles of rock. The men planning to attack the camp took up hidden positions in a
small dell about half a mile from their objective, not wanting to get in too
close, for Hanno reasoned that in the afternoon and evening foragers and wood
gatherers might range out of the camp. Indeed,
about dusk a few such did wander close to the Carthaginians. Hanno watched from
cover as one Gaul actually urinated on the hidden foot of one of the soldiers,
who lay stoically, lips moving silently in curses, holding his breath. There
would be no fires at all this night, and no talking or moving about. The men
would lie in their hiding places all but unmoving. These were disciplined
Iberian troops who had been with Hannibal for three years, and many of them with
Hasdrubal the Handsome and even Hamilcar before that. *
* * While
Hanno was on the move, Hannibal from time to time sent boats partway across the
river carrying archers, who harassed the tribesmen with showers of arrows,
keeping them focused on Hannibal rather than on their own side of the river. Before
dawn after his fifth night at the crossing point, expecting Hanno’s signal at
any time, Hannibal filled his boats in readiness for the crossing. He placed
some of the larger boats just upstream, anchored to break the current somewhat
before it reached the small boats and canoes that would carry the light cavalry
and the light infantry, respectively. Men guyed the breakwater boats with lines
fixed to trees, and shifts of rowers kept them fairly steadily in place. “Put
two men in the stern of each of the larger boats,” he instructed. “They will
hold the reins of three or four horses—the horses can swim well enough, even
if you lose their reins: but don’t.” Already
as the boats formed up, the tribesmen across the way had poured out of their
camp. The Gauls looked like Vendorix and his people, most of them tall,
fair-haired men decked out with tattoos and skin paintings, gold torcs about
necks and arms along with other jewelry, their hair streaming loose, done up
with lime water, or in long, fat braids. These
men screamed war cries and insults, dancing half-naked along the bank, bragging
loudly about the spoils they fully expected to take and the exquisite hurts they
would deal to the Africans. They brandished their long swords and torches in the
half-light of dawn, a crescent moon not long risen hanging behind them. Hannibal,
however, saw the tribesmen as undisciplined barbarians, like flies to be swept
aside with an arm—and took the moon as a sign favorable to his cause, for the
crescent was part of Carthaginian symbolism, appearing on his men’s battle
standards. All
along the bank on Hannibal’s side, the men held themselves ready. The boatmen
stood by to launch, awaiting the signal to cross, with gangs of men waiting to
shove them out into the current. Here and there a frightened horse gave the men
some trouble, but the experienced Numidian and Iberian cavalrymen in the boats,
almost married to their mounts, were ready with calming words and soothing
touches. Hannibal
waited, watching the line of low hills behind the screen of trees across the
river. Time
passed, the darkness lessened. Hanno’s
smoke signal appeared, separated puffs of white smoke rising silently behind the
preoccupied tribesmen and a little upstream. “Now,”
Hannibal said, stepping into a boat himself. The order was relayed up and down
the shore. The
boats pulled out into the stream, fighting the strong current. Hannibal’s men
on shore cheered, shouting encouragement to their comrades on the river. The
tribesmen increased their own shouts and flew into a frenzy of capering,
whirling madmen, crying out taunts and warbling their war cries. A few splashed
out into the shallows, brandishing spears, as if to hurry the coming slaughter. Most
of the boats pulled crisply, naturally losing somewhat to the current but moving
well towards landing points not far downstream. The horses swam strongly, and
only one or two broke loose from their handlers, though they kept near their
boats, held by the reassuring presence of their riders in the sterns. When
the lead craft had almost crossed the whole distance, the Gauls were startled to
hear shouts of terror in their rear, raised in the voices of their own comrades.
Hanno’s force had attacked, making as much noise as possible in order to
inspire fear and doubt in the tribesmen. Some of the Carthaginian detachment
torched the Gallic camp, and when the Gauls at the river had realized their camp
was in flames, the second group took the Gauls in the rear. Within
minutes, the enemy force crumbled, the Gauls fleeing their attackers or engaging
in running battles that led them farther from the river, or attempting to reach
their camp to save what they might. By the time the first boat touched shore
there were friendly hands to help haul it in. What fighting there was took place
mostly between Hanno’s men and a few Gallic stragglers. Hannibal
leapt from the lead boat and ran beaming to embrace Hanno. “Well done, my
friend!” Hanno
pushed Hannibal back to arm’s length and grinned. “It was good, wasn’t
it?” “Now—come
with me,” Hannibal said, throwing up an arm to summon his staff, just now
emerging from other boats. He swept them all away to help him choose a campsite.
When
the first wave of boats had discharged their occupants, they turned and
recrossed for a second load. All through the day they plied the course,
gradually shifting tens of thousands of men and thousands of horses from one
bank to the other. Hannibal
soon set up his own headquarters near the burning Gallic camp. Now he had only
his elephants to bring across. Next section of V. Dorix, The Alps, 218 B.C. Back to Top
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