“No children starve, in this modern world. No old people die from neglect. No rich man takes a poor man’s farm by bribing a judge. No master beats his slave for some trifling offense. There are no slaves.”
Again, the sweeping glare. The silence, this time, came from more than respect. Whatever their crude attitudes, the legionnaires all knew that in this, at least, Julius Rusticanus spoke nothing but the plain and simple truth.
“So I’ll hear no sneering about `politicians.’ We humans have always had politicians. Our old ones were never any better—and usually a lot worse. I know why Gaius is confident that the Confederation will support the proposal. I don’t even need to know who his `best authority’ is. All I have to do is observe what’s in front of my nose.”
He laughed heartily. Theatrically, to Ainsley; but the historian knew that was an accepted part of the rhetoric. The ancients had none of the modern liking for subtle poses.
“The simple political reality is this, legionnaires,” continued Rusticanus. “The people, in their great majority, are now filled with anti-Galactic fervor.” Again, that theatrical laugh. “I think most of them are a bit bored with their peaceful modern world, to tell you the truth. They haven’t had a war—not a real one, anyway—in almost a hundred years. And this is what they call a crusade.”
“Won’t be able to fight, then,” grumbled one of the file-closers. “They’re all a pack of civilians.”
“Really?” sneered Rusticanus. “I’ll tell you what, Appuleius—why don’t you explain that to the Guild fleet? You know—the one that’s nothing more than gas drifting in space?”
The jibe was met with raucous laughter. Joyful, savage laughter, thought Ainsley. For all their frequent grumbling about “modern sissies,” the historian knew the fierce pride which the Romans had taken in Trumbull’s destruction of the Guild fleet.
The first centurion pressed home the advantage. He gestured—again, theatrically—to one of the Medics standing toward the side of the salon. This was the “old” Medic, not the “new” one—the stocky, mauve-skinned, three-fingered crewman from the ship the Romans had captured years earlier. A few months after their arrival on Earth, the troop transport’s Pilot had committed suicide. But the Medic had adjusted rather well to his new reality. He had even, over time, grown quite friendly with many of the legionnaires. Vibulenus had invited him to this meeting in order to take advantage of his Galactic knowledge.
“Tell them, Medic!” commanded Rusticanus. “Tell them how long it’s been since an entire Guild fleet was annihilated.”
The Medic stepped forward a pace or two. All the Romans were watching him intently, with the interest of veterans hearing the story of an unfamiliar campaign.
“As far as I know, it’s never happened.”
The legionnaires stared.
“What do you mean?” croaked one of them. “What do you mean—never?”
The Medic shook his head, a gesture he had picked up from his long immersion among humans. “Not that I know of. I’m not saying it never happened—way, way back toward the beginning of the Federation, sixty or seventy thousand years ago. But I know it hasn’t happened in a very long time.”
The Romans were practically goggling, now.
Again, the Medic shook his head. “You don’t understand. You all think like—like Romans. All humans seem to think that way—even modern ones like Trumbull. The Guilds—and their Federation—are merchants. Profit and loss, that’s what sets their field of vision. The Guilds fight each other, now and then, but it’s never anything like that—that massacre Trumbull ordered. After one or two of their ships gets banged around—they hardly ever actually lose a ship—the Guild that’s getting the worst of it just offers a better deal. And that’s it.”
The room was silent, for over a minute, as the Roman veterans tried to absorb this fantastical information. Ainsley was reminded of nothing so much as a pack of wolves trying to imagine how lapdogs think.
Suddenly, one of the legionnaires erupted in laughter. “Gods!” he cried. “Maybe this crazy Gha scheme will work after all!” He beamed approvingly at the huge figure of Fludenoc. “And at least we’ll have these damned giant toads on our side, this time.”