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.