Hannibal chose this man to lead the delegation that would introduce Carthage to the Gauls. A strange choice, perhaps, but the commander wished to make certain things clear to those coarse men from the start. Monomachus stood before the Gauls like the seething pulse of enmity. His cheekbones were high and feline, so prominent that the rest of his face hung shadowed beneath them. He was so devoid of fat that his body seemed little more than a skeleton wrapped in striated cords of muscle. When the Gauls beheld him they knew that even by their own standards this was a creature not wisely crossed. Most of them were glad they did not have to cross him. For, despite the simmering intensity in his stare, he offered friendship. He lavished presents of gold and silver on the chieftains. He unsheathed finely crafted Iberian swords and offered them up, blade held between his fingers. He talked of the power of Carthage and the benefits of friendship. And he said that he had been sent only to guarantee safe passage through their lands as the forces of Carthage marched toward Rome. Should the Gauls choose to join in the great war, they would be welcome as comrades, with the bounty of Italy shared among them all. He found most tribes eventually proved amenable.
But when he reached the Volcae things changed somewhat. These were an even rougher sort of barbarian tribe than most, warlike and primitive, caring little for the outside world. Monomachus found his translator having difficulty communicating with them. They took the gifts readily enough, but they saw no need to bow to these foreigners' wishes. There were only a few of them, after all, and the Volcae were a numerous people. The Carthaginians presented their gifts and called councils, and all the while more of the Volcae slunk out of the foothills in seemingly endless small bands. Their camp grew around the envoys, and the Carthaginians sensed the whispered malice multiplying minute by minute.
The group spent one sleepless night in these people's company. It was a frigid winter and none of the warm-blooded Africans fared well in it. They heard movement around them all through the night; by morning it seemed their host had doubled in size yet again. The party of twenty-five stood steaming in the morning air, talking among themselves in whispers that crystallized before their faces. One man whispered to another that they would not leave this place alive, but Monomachus punched the young man and told them what he had learned in the night, for he had not been idle. Their interpreter had managed to gain this information through bribes: this day would indeed be their last. The chieftain was to invite them to his hut to receive more presents, but once inside they would be seized. Then the masses outside would attack the rest of the contingent. They would be killed by various tortures. Their heads would be cut from their bodies and used for sport. Their skulls would later adorn the entrances to Volcae homes, or roll upon the floor as toys for children.
“At least,” Monomachus said, “this is how they would have things.” But he had a different idea and his men bent willing ears to it.
They went to the chieftain bearing no arms of their own, but with a gift of swords, one carried by each of the five who would enter the hut. There was some debate about this, but, in the end, prudence gave way to greed, for the Gauls desired the fine swords. Inside was smoky and dark and close. The five stood before the chieftain and explained their proposals. They felt the armed guards pressing at their backs, but Monomachus spoke easily, describing the war to come and the part they might play in it, actively if they chose, or passively by allowing the army to pass unmolested. Either suited Hannibal. They waited as the translator did his work.
When the response came, it was as the Carthaginians expected. The chief would promise nothing until he had seen the gifts they offered. And these gifts had better be magnificent, for he was not inclined to allow a foreign force to pass beneath his nose. Who was this Hannibal, anyway? Why had he not come himself? If he was so powerful, why did he send such a small delegation? Why try to bribe his way through a territory, if his army was all that they claimed? He asked again to see the gifts. He might talk more after that.
Monomachus heard this calmly. He stared at the bulbous nose of the Gaul, at the blue eyes and the red, creviced skin. He held the curved sword before him, like nothing the Gaul had seen before, glinting even in the dim firelight. He said this: They would pass. They would, with his blessing or not, beneath his nose or no. In fact, he would take his nose to Hannibal and let the commander decide the matter. Before the translator had completed the Gallic version, Monomachus slammed his head forward, mouth open, teeth bared. He clamped down on the chieftain's nose and shook his head from side to side with all the fury of a lion at the kill. He broke away with a chunk of the man's flesh in his mouth. The Gaul's face was a bloody mess, but that was soon to be the least of his problems.
Monomachus stepped back and put the gift-sword to use. He struck low and sliced the Gaul clean through both legs just below the knee. The man fell as his shins slipped away from him, but a moment later he was upright, fighting for balance on the bloody stumps that were now his legs. This could not last long, but the Carthaginians did not wait to see him fall again. In a blur of stabbing and slashing they dispatched the rest of the Gauls, who scarcely had the time or the space to swing their swords into motion.
The small party flew out of the shelter and into the arms of a massed army. The rest of the group, who had been waiting outside, had drawn their swords at the first sounds of confusion from within the hovel. The moment Monomachus joined them they hit the wall of blond chests with a shocking, immediate fury, a scream rising from their leader and stirring the other men into a frenzy of hacking, thrusting progress. Though they started at twenty-five before the meeting they were seventeen by the time they reached their horses, and eleven when they could finally look behind them without fear. Two others died of their injuries in the days to come. One was dispatched at his own request.
And so it was a ragged band of eight that finally returned to New Carthage. Monomachus went straight to Hannibal, unwashed and still crusted in blood he chose not to wash from his armor. He said things had gone quite well in Gaul. They had many friends. They would not find that their passage along the Rhône need be made through entirely hostile peoples. “There were a few tribes that might prove troublesome,” he said, “but they will find themselves overmatched.”
Entering his chambers at a brisk walk, Hannibal spotted the servant before she noticed him. She lay prone across his bed, the curve of her hips betrayed through the thin fabric of her shift, her legs stretching bare beyond these. The sole of one foot caressed the toes of the other. She seemed completely absorbed with something just beside her, out of view. Hannibal cleared his throat and the young woman's head snapped around. She gasped and sprang to her feet, head bowed and arms pinned at her sides. Only then was it clear that she had been cuddling with the child, Hamilcar. The boy, also as if caught in some clandestine moment, rolled from back to belly. He paused on all fours and stared at his father, unsure why he had caused such alarm in his maid. After a moment of apparent thought, he offered a babble of greeting.