by Eric Flint
“Oh, yes,” murmured Gaius. “Fortunately, Tsiang’s a phlegmatic kind of guy. Good thing for Clodius. The colonel has a black belt in at least five of the martial arts.”
He turned his head. “You might want to watch this, Clodius Afer! They’re getting ready for the first volley of javelins!”
Two seconds later, the former centurion’s face was almost pressed to the screen. “They’ll screw it up,” he groaned. “Damned amateurs think they’re throwing darts in a tavern.”
Silence ensued, for a few seconds. Then:
Gaius grinned. Clodius Afer scowled and stalked off. Robert Ainsley hissed, face pale.
“God in Heaven,” he whispered shakily. “I had no idea.”
The former tribune’s grin faded. “A good javelin volley is like the scythe of death, Robert. It’s pure butchery.”
“Was this one good?”
“As good as you’ll ever see. I knew it would be.”
Ainsley studied Gaius for a moment.
“You’ve never shared Clodius Afer’s skepticism. Why?”
Gaius snorted. “The old bastard’s just jealous, that’s all.”
The former tribune jabbed his forefinger at the screen. “Every single one of those legionnaires, from the legate down to the last man in the ranks, is a hand-picked volunteer. The cream of the crop-and it was a huge crop of volunteers. Every one’s a soldier, and every one’s dedicated to this cause. Not to mention the fact that, on average, they’re probably half again as strong and twice as fast as the average Roman legionnaire of our time. So why shouldn’t they do well?”
Ainsley rubbed his chin. “It’s still their first real battle.”
Gaius shrugged. “True. And it shows.” He nodded at the screen.
“They’re sluggish, right now. They’re not reacting as quickly as they should to the success of their javelin volley. That’s inexperience. A blooded legion would already be down the enemy’s throat. But-see? Tsiang’s already bringing the line forward. Good formations, too. The spacing’s excellent.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the figure of Clodius Afer, wailing against the wall.
“Clodius forgets. How good do you think we were in the beginning? A bunch of ignorant kids, half of us. Marched off to slaughter in the desert and then sold to aliens. I had no idea what I was doing, at first. This legion’s already doing well. Give them three more campaigns and they could have chopped us up for horse meat.”
He turned back to the screen. “Trust me, Robert. There’s never been a better Roman legion than the one down there on that field today.”
Again, he cocked his head and bellowed at Clodius Afer. “They’ve almost closed with the enemy! Oh-and look! The Tenth Cohort’s going to bear the brunt of it!”
“That bitch!” shrieked Clodius Afer, charging back to the screen. “She’s going to get ‘em all killed!”
Silence, for two full minutes. Then:
Gaius laughed. Clodius Afer spit on the floor and stalked back to the wall. Spit on the wall. Ainsley wiped his face.
“I thought the Tenth Cohort was supposed to be the legion’s shield, not its sword arm,” he muttered.
Gaius’s grin was cold, cold. “Yeah, that’s the tradition. But traditions are meant to be broken, you know. And Tribune Lemont is not the phlegmatic type.”
“Is it true?” whispered Ainsley. “Did Clodius Afer really call Shirley Lemont a-”
Gaius laughed. “Oh, yes! Then, after he woke up, he insisted on a formal rematch. He didn’t quit until she threw him six times running, and told him she was going to start breaking his puny little bones.”
Ainsley stared at Clodius Afer. The former centurion was studying the stone wall with a deep interest which seemed entirely inappropriate to its bare, rough-hewn nature.
“I guess it took him by surprise, seeing women in the legion’s ranks.”
Gaius started to reply but broke off suddenly, rising halfway out of his seat. “Gods, look at them rolling up the flank! This battle’s already won, Robert.” Turning his head, he bellowed:
“Hey, Clodius Afer! You might want to see this! The enemy’s pouring off the field! The legion’s hammering ‘em into mash! And-guess what?-great news! It’s our old Tenth Cohort that turned their flank! God, what a maneuver! I’m telling you, Clodius Afer-that Shirley Lemont’s the best tribune I’ve ever seen! Come here! You don’t want to miss it!”
In the next five minutes, Gaius Vibulenus went over the battle with the Fourth-of-Five, patiently answering the native warleader’s many questions. Robert Ainsley simply sat, recovering from the experience-simultaneously exhilarating and horrifying-of finally seeing the Roman war machine in action.
Clodius Afer leaned his head against the stone wall. Banged it once or twice. Wept bitter tears for the lost legacy of ancient Rome.
Ruined-ruined-by modern sissies. Girls.
XIV
As he watched the troop transport settle its enormous bulk into the valley, Ainsley found it impossible not to grin.
“Travelling in style, I see,” he chuckled.
Gaius gave him a stern look. “I beg your pardon? The Cato is an official SPQR Guild transport vessel, properly registered as such with the Federation authorities.”
Ainsley snorted. “She’s also the former Queen Elizabeth, luxury liner.”
Gaius grinned. “So? It could be worse, you know. They’re already talking about raising the Titanic and retrofitting her.”
A voice from behind them: “It’s already been decided. Damn fools are going to do it.”
The two men turned to face Tambo. The naval officer was just climbing off the stairs onto the stone ramp behind the castle’s crenellations. A few steps behind him came the Second-of-Five.
The South African and the native clan leader joined them at the battlements. Tambo scowled.
“I think it’s pure foolishness, myself. The whole point of refitting old naval vessels is to re-arm the Earth as fast as possible. Stupid. It’ll take twice as long-and twice the money-to fix up that shipwreck than it would to build a brand-new transport.”
Ainsley’s reply was mild. “Humans are a bit swept up in historical sentiment, you know. All things considered, I have to say I’m rather in favor of it.”
Tambo grimaced but didn’t argue the point. Instead he went straight to his business.
“I’ve just gotten word from the escort vessels. The Federation ship and the Guild transport have left the system, so there are no observers left. The colonists can debark before the legion boards the transport.”
“Any threats?” asked Gaius.
“From the Ty’uct?” sneered Tambo. “Not likely-not after we smeared their second invasion fleet in less time than the first. No, no threats. But they are definitely in a foul mood after yesterday’s whipping. They’re complaining about the elephants.”
Gaius shrugged. “Let ‘em! Elephants were a regular feature of Roman warfare.”
“Not genetically engineered semi-mastodons,” pointed out Ainsley.
Again, Gaius shrugged. “So what? The Guild can hardly complain-not when their Gha ride mounts that have to be turbocharged to even breathe the air.”
Tambo smiled. “They’re still going to complain about it. Demand a full Federation hearing, they say.” His smile broadened. “God, would I love to be there! Did you hear? Mai the Merciless has been appointed Earth’s official representative to the Federation.”
“Heaven help them,” murmured Ainsley. Then:
“I thought you were going to be there.”
Tambo’s smile was now an outright grin. “Change of orders.” He squared his shoulders. Struck a solemn pose.
“You have the honor of being in the presence of the newly appointed commodore in charge of Flotilla Seven.”
The false pomposity vanished, replaced by a cheerful rubbing of his hands. “The campaign against the Ssrange is on! And I’m in command!”
Ainsley’s eyes widened. “They decided to do it? I
thought-”
Tambo shook his head. “No, it seems good sense won out over timidity, after all. Christ, I should hope so! We’ve got a tiger by the tail. Last thing we can afford to do is let go. If the Guilds and the Federation ever figure out how vulnerable we are-will be, for at least twenty years-they could slaughter us. Keep the bastards cowed-that’s the trick!”
Gaius nodded. “I agree. Bloodying the Ty’uct Guild’s nose in a couple of small ship battles will only win us a couple of years. Before one of the bolder guilds decides to mount a real armada.”
“Unless we show the galaxy how rough we are-by wiping out the nest of pirates that the whole Federation’s whined about for thirty millennia.” The South African’s voice took on a whimpering tone. “What can we do? Best to reach an accommodation with the Ssrange. They’re businessmen, too, after all, in their own way.”
Gaius’s eyes were icy. “They held Quartilla, for a time. Did you know that?”
Both Tambo and Ainsley nodded.
“What’s your plan, Stephen?” asked the historian. “You’re the commander.”
For a moment, Tambo’s eyes were as cold as the Roman’s. “It’s been named Operation Pompey. That should give you the idea.”
Ainsley sucked in his breath. Gaius grinned like a wolf.
As well he could. In 67 B.C.-just fourteen years before Crassus’s ill-fated expedition against the Parthians had resulted in Gaius’s enslavement to the Guild-the Roman republic finally lost patience with the pirates who had plagued the Mediterranean for centuries. Pompey the Great-one of the three members, along with Caesar and Crassus, of the First Triumvirate-was charged with the task of exterminating piracy.
He did it. In exactly three months.
“The Roman way,” growled Gaius.
“Here come the colonists,” murmured Tambo. He raised the binoculars hanging around his neck and studied the small crowd of people filing from the Cato. Then, after a minute or so, passed them to the Second-of-Five. The native clan leader immediately-and with obvious familiarity with the eyeglasses-began examining the scene in the valley below.
Ainsley spent the time studying the binoculars themselves. He was rather fascinated by the simple, obsolete device. Modern humans, when they wanted to view something at a distance, used computer-enhanced optical technology. But such technology would be far beyond the capacity of the natives who had just entered a new trading agreement with the galaxy’s newest guild.
The SPQR Guild, as it was formally known-and so registered, officially, with the Federation.
The “guild” had other, unofficial names. Many of them, in many human languages. The names varied, depending on each human subculture’s own traditions. Some called it the Tea Party, others the Long March. Others, Francophones, la Resistance. Most people, though, simply called it the Liberation.
Ainsley’s attention shuttled back and forth between the binoculars and the small, furred figure of the native holding them.
They’ve started their first lens-grinding works, Tambo tells me. They already knew how to make good glass.
He looked away, smiling. The occasional Federation observer who scanned from orbit, now and then, would have no way of seeing the technological and social revolution that was exploding across the surface below. This planet-and its people-were frozen no longer.
The “SPQR Guild” had set up quite different trade relations than the ones which had dominated here for two millennia. The Doge guilds, had they known, would have been utterly shocked.
These trade treaties would not bleed the natives dry. Quite the opposite.
Ainsley looked down into the valley. He could not see the individual faces of the colonists who were now making their way toward the castle, escorted by elephant-mounted Gha. But he knew what those faces would look like. Human faces, in their big majority-although some of those faces concealed Ossa. But there would be a few unreconstructed Ossa among them, the first contingents of what was already being called the Underground Railroad. And, here and there, a few members of other species. Freed slaves, some. Others, people from Class One planets-like the Pilot and the Medic-who had decided to throw in their lot with the rising new human “Doge Species.”
On every planet which the SPQR Guild’s legions cleared of their former guild masters, such small colonies would be set up. Scattered like seeds across the starfields, to intermingle with the natives and create a multitude of new, vibrant societies.
He caught Tambo’s warm eyes watching him.
“Twenty years, Robert,” said the naval officer softly. “Twenty years. By then, Earth’s navy will be too strong for the Guilds-even the Federation-to defeat us.”
He made a sweeping gesture which encompassed the valley and, by implication, the entire universe. “And, by then, we’ll have created an army of allies. A host, Robert, like this galaxy’s never seen.”
Ainsley smiled crookedly. “You’re not worried, Stephen? Not at all?”
Before answering, Tambo studied him.
Then, he shook his head. “God, I’d hate to be a historian,” he muttered. “Worry about everything.” Again, he made the sweeping gesture.
“You’re concerned, I assume, that we’ll screw it up, too? Set up a new tyranny?”
Ainsley nodded. Tambo chuckled.
“Don’t worry about it, Robert. I’m sure we’ll screw it up. Some. Badly, even, here and there. So what? It’ll sort itself out, soon enough.”
He grinned widely. “We humans have always been good at sorting out that kind of thing, you know.”
Tambo stretched out his muscular, light-brown arm.
“Look at it, historian. There’s all of Africa-half the world-in that arm. Bantu, Boer, Khoisan, English. A fair chunk of India, too.” He lowered the arm. “When I was a boy, growing up, I was thrilled as much by the Trek as I was by Isandhlwana, Moshoeshoe and Mandela. It’s all part of me. Now that it’s been sorted out.”
Tambo pointed his finger at the great banner flying above the castle. The banner of the new guild, proudly announcing its trade dominance of the planet.
“We’ll sort it out. And wherever we screw up, there’ll be others to kick us in the ass. We humans are just as good at learning from a butt-kicking as we are at delivering one. Better, probably.”
Ainsley stared at the banner. Then, smiled as broadly as Tambo. “Poor Doges,” he murmured. “Merchants have never been worth a damn, you know, historically speaking. Not, at least, when they try to run an empire.”
Emblazoned atop the banner, above the eagle standard, were the simple letters: S.P.Q.R.
Below, the Guild’s motto:
Carthago delenda est.
XV
Some years later, a great crowd filled the villa near Capua owned by Gaius Vibulenus. The occasion was the ninth birthday of Gaius and Quartilla’s first child. The boy they had named Ulysses, but called simply Sam.
Clodius Afer, one of the boy’s four godfathers, had been disgruntled by the name. “Sissy Greek name,” he’d muttered, speaking of the official cognomen. And he had even less use for the nickname.
Pompilius Niger, the second of the godfathers, also thought the name was a bit odd, for a Roman. But, unlike Clodius Afer, the simple farmer rather liked the simple “Sam.”
Julius Rusticanus, the third godfather, was delighted by the name. As well he should be-it was his suggestion in the first place. Unlike his two fellow legionnaires, Rusticanus knew that the boy had not been named after an ancient Greek adventurer. No, Rusticanus had become quite the student of world history-as befitted a man who had recently been elected, by an overwhelming majority of Italians, to the Confederation’s most august legislative body. The former first centurion, born a peasant, was now-what would his father have thought, he often wondered?-a senator.
Ulysses had been named after another, much later man. The man who led the armies which destroyed chattel slavery. Ulysses “Sam” Grant. Rusticanus had great hopes for the boy. Especially now, watching the child bouncing
in the lap of his fourth godfather, demanding an explanation for the new toys.
The boy, though large for his age, was almost lost in that huge Gha lap.
“What do you do with them, Fludenoc?” demanded Sam. “How do you play with them?”
Rusticanus grinned. Fludenoc hu’tut-No. He was now Fludenoc hu-lu-tut-Na Nomo’te. His epic poem-the first epic poem ever written by a Gha-had won him that new accolade, from his clan. Fludenoc now belonged to that most select of Gha poets, those considered “bards.”
The epic had been entitled the Ghaiad. Rusticanus had read it, twice. The first time with awe, at the Gha’s great poetic skill, which came through even in the Latin translation. The second time with amusement, at the Gha’s wry sense of humor. It was all about a small band of Gha, long ago, who had been driven into exile by rapacious conquerors. Wandering the galaxy-having many adventures-until they finally settled on a new planet and founded Rome. (With, admittedly, a bit of help from the local natives.)
Fludenoc, like Rusticanus, had also become an avid student of human history.
“Tell me, Uncle Fludenoc, tell me!” demanded the boy. The child pointed at the new toys which the Gha had brought him for his birthday. “How do you play with them?”
Fludenoc’s huge, bulging eyes stared down at the tiny Ossa/human child in his lap. As always, there was no expression in the giant’s face. But the boy had long since learned to read the subtleties of Gha breathing.
“Stop laughing at me!” shrilled Sam. “I want to know! How do you play with them?”
“I was not laughing at you, Sam,” rumbled Fludenoc. “I was laughing at the Doges.”