Carthago Delenda Est

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 sca

The “SPQR Guild” had set up quite different trade relations than the ones which had dominated here for two mille

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 tyra

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 gri

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 ba

“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 ba

Emblazoned atop the ba

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 legio

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 gri

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.