Ainsley, catching a glimpse of Pompilius Niger across the room, smiled. Only an ancient Roman would have so doggedly tried to make mead by following something that might be a funny-looking bee. A modern human would have understood the biological impossibility of the task.
And, in that wisdom, died in the hands of the Guild.
He looked back at Quartilla.
And so it had been with her and Gaius. The ancient Roman had been frightened and repelled by her scaly reptilian skin, when he first met her. But he had never thought she was anything but a—person.
“I am glad,” he said quietly. “I approve of that decision. You understand, of course, that your children will face some difficulties, because of it.”
Quartilla shrugged. It was a serene gesture.
“Some, yes. But not many, I think. If other children get too rough on them, Gaius says he will put a stop to it by simply crucifying a couple of the little bastards.”
Ainsley started to laugh; then choked on his own humor.
He stared across the room at Vibulenus. The tribune was standing in a corner of his villa’s huge salon, wine glass in hand, in a cluster of veterans who were having a vigorous and friendly exchange of war stories. With him were Clodius Afer, Julius Rusticanus—and all four of the Gha.
Good Lord. That’s probably not a joke.
He caught Quartilla watching him closely.
“No, Robert,” she murmured. “He is a Roman. He is not joking at all.”
XII
An hour later, Gaius Vibulenus called the meeting to order.
There were almost sixty former legionnaires sprawled everywhere in the great salon. Fortunately, Gaius owned an enormous villa. The entire estate—not far from Capua, to his delight—had been a historical museum before it was turned over to him by the Italian regional government, following the dictates of popular demand.
Many more legionnaires had offered to come, but Gaius had kept the invitations reasonably small. Too many people would make decisions impossible. Besides, the men in the room were, almost without exception, the surviving leaders of the Roman legion. All of the centurions were there, and almost all of the file-closers. Whatever decision they made would be accepted by the rest of the legionnaires.
“All right,” began Vibulenus, “you’ve all heard the Gha proposal. In its basic outline, anyway.”
He waved his hand airily. “I have it on the best authority that the Confederation government will give its backing to the scheme. Unofficially, of course.”
Clodius Afer sneered. “Those politicians? Be serious, Gaius! They’re even worse than that sorry lot of senators we left behind.”
Several other legionnaires grunted their agreement with that sentiment. Ainsley, watching, was amused. With few exceptions—Vibulenus, for one; and, oddly enough, Julius Rusticanus—the Romans had never been able to make sense out of modern politics. They tended to dismiss all of it as so much silly nonsense, which could be settled quick enough with just a few crucifixions.
Much as the historian admired—even loved—the Romans, he was glad not to have lived in their political world. True, much of modern politics was “so much silly nonsense.” But, much of it wasn’t, appearances to the contrary. And, modern man that he ultimately was, Ainsley thoroughly approved of the world-wide ban on capital punishment—much less torture.
“You’re wrong, Clodius,” rumbled Julius Rusticanus. The first centurion set down his wine goblet, almost ceremoniously, and stood up. Trained in the rhetorical traditions of the ancient world, he struck a solemn pose. His audience—just as well trained—assumed the solemn stance of listeners.
“Listen to me, Romans. Unlike most of you, I have paid careful attention to modern politics. And I do not share your contempt for it. Nor do I have any desire to listen to puling nonsense about the `glories of Rome.’ I remember the old politics, too. It was stupid Roman politics—the worst kind of personal ambition—that marched us all into that damned Parthian desert. Whatever folly there is in modern men—and there’s plenty of it—they are a better lot than we were.”
He glared around the room, as if daring anyone to argue with him. No one, of course, was foolish enough to do so. Not with the first centurion.