by David Drake
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 con
sidered "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."
Sam's slightly iridescent, softly scaled face crinkled into a frown.
"When you grow up," said the Gha, gently, "you will know how to use them."
Sam twisted in Fludenoc's lap, staring down at the peculiar toys sitting on the floor.
A small plow.
A bag of salt.
THE END
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* * *
Foreign Legions
Table of Contents
Introduction:
WELL, IT HAPPENED THIS WAY . . .
RANKS OF BRONZE
SIR GEORGE AND THE DRAGON
LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER
A CLEAR SIGNAL
THE THREE WALLS—
32nd CAMPAIGN
CARTHAGO DELENDA EST
* * *
eBook Info
Title:
Foreign Legions
Type:
Novel
Identifier:
0-671-31990-6
Identifier:
978-0-671-31990-8
Identifier:
0-7434-3560-5
Identifier:
978-0-7434-3560-4
Identifier:
10.1125/Baen.0671319906
Publisher:
Baen Books
Creator:
Created by David Drake
Contributor:
Dru Blair
Subject:
Science Fiction
Rights:
2001 by David Drake
Date:
2001-06-01
Language:
US English (en-us)
* * *
Table of Contents
Introduction: WELL, IT HAPPENED THIS WAY . . .
RANKS OF BRONZE
SIR GEORGE AND THE DRAGON
LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER
A CLEAR SIGNAL
THE THREE WALLS— 32 nd CAMPAIGN
CARTHAGO DELENDA EST
