From the very first pages of Asterix the Gaul, readers are presented with one of the series’ most elegant visual jokes: a tiny Gaulish village, stubbornly independent, surrounded by four Roman camps. Not carefully plotted on a military grid, not arranged with geographic precision—but placed close enough to form a permanent ring of imperial frustration.

The Fantastic Four

They are always there. Petibonum. Babaorum. Aquarium. Laudanum. Four Latin-sounding names that promise Roman authority and deliver, more often than not, airborne legionaries.

• Aquarium: No real pun, identical in French and English.
• Babaorum: English: Totorum. A reference to baba au rhum; in English, “a tot o’ rum.”
• Petibonum: English: Compendium. From petit bonhomme (“little fellow”). In English, Compendium suggests something neatly contained.
• Laudanum: Identical in English. Named after the opium-based painkiller—an appropriate reference for soldiers who regularly collide with Obelix.

What’s in a Name?

The joke begins with the names themselves. In French, they are culinary and linguistic puns invented by René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo. In English, translators Anthea Bell and Derek Hockridge did not simply translate them—they reinvented them. Petibonum became Compendium. Babaorum became Totorum. The humour was never literal; it was adapted so that the joke would land just as effectively in another language. Even before a single punch is thrown, the Romans are already part of the punchline.

Petibonum Sets the Pattern

Petibonum is the camp that defines the series’ Roman–Gaulish dynamic. Its commander, Caius Bonus (Crismus Bonus in English), makes the fatal mistake of believing that Roman discipline can outwit a druid with a recipe. His attempt to steal the secret of the magic potion establishes the formula that will echo throughout the albums: underestimate the Gauls, devise a clever plan, regret everything.

From that moment on, the four camps are not simply military installations. They are narrative devices—launchpads for Roman schemes that collapse under the weight of their own arrogance.

When Rome Tries Something “Different”

As the albums progressed, the other camps took their turns in the spotlight. In Asterix and the Big Fight (1966), Langélus (Felonius Caucus) demonstrated that administrative manipulation was no safer than open confrontation. In Asterix at the Olympic Games (1968), Tullius Mordicus (Gaius Veriambitus) proved that personal ambition could be just as disastrous as military strategy.

By the 1970s, the experiments became more elaborate. In Asterix in Corsica (1973), Gazpachoandalus (Hippopotamus) appeared as a weary officer who seemed to understand that survival was a more realistic goal than victory. In Caesar’s Gift (1974), Tohubohus (Tremensdelirius) struggled to maintain order in circumstances that spiraled well beyond Roman control. And in Obelix and Co. (1976), Absolumentexclus (Ignoramus) found he and his legion were presents for Obelix at his birthday.

Chronologically, the pattern is clear. Each new commander believes he can succeed where his predecessors failed. Each album quietly proves otherwise.

Order on the Map, Chaos on the Ground

On the map, the camps look neat and controlled—tiny symbols of imperial authority enclosing one defiant dot. In the stories, they are anything but orderly. Shields splinter. Standards bend. Centurions panic. And that contrast—between Rome’s apparent control and its repeated humiliation—is precisely why the four camps remain one of the most enduring running gags in the entire Asterix series.