The morning air was biting.
As the sharp cold pierced his lungs, Marcus pressed the telescope to his eye.
Standing atop the tower, he fixed his gaze steadily in the direction of Ostia.
Beside him, his partner held a telescope of his own.
"When do you think it's coming?"
"It's almost the scheduled time. It should be here any moment," Marcus replied, without taking his eye from the telescope.
He kept rubbing the small charm hanging from his neck.
It was a wooden talisman carved into the shape of a phallus, a symbol of Saturn. His wife and the neighbors in the Subura had pooled what little money they had to buy it for him.
Marcus still couldn't quite believe he had actually been hired as an operator.
He had graduated at the top of his class during the rigorous training, which had earned him a prime assignment: operating the crucial middle tower in the relay line.
However, he wasn't officially a permanent employee just yet.
"If this goes well..."
Whether the Ostia towers would be put into service or discarded altogether entirely depended on the success of today's demonstration.
Just as he was lost in thought, the tower to the west began to move.
The wooden mechanical arms shifted.
And on the central mast, a white flag was hoisted into the air.
It was the starting signal.
Marcus quickly grabbed his partner's shoulder.
"Look there! It's starting. I'll pull the levers, you call out the signals!"
"Got it!"
Marcus hastily placed his hands on the row of levers beside him.
The cold iron bit into his fingertips.
Sending and receiving signals was simple in principle.
First, the transmitting tower would send a confirmation signal. The receiving tower would reply to show it was ready.
Once the message was fully transmitted, both sides exchange a final signal to mark completion, and that was it.
By repeating this process down the line, messages of letters and numbers could travel to their destination with astonishing speed.
With practiced, fluid motions, Marcus yanked the first lever.
Screeeech—
The massive wooden arms and flagpoles shifted into position.
Then something went wrong.
One of the levers suddenly seized up, refusing to budge.
"Damn it!"
"What's wrong?" his partner asked, looking back in alarm.
"The lever is jammed!"
Marcus threw his entire body weight into it, desperately yanking the lever, but it wouldn't budge an inch.
"Then we need to send the 'malfunction' signal—"
"Wait!" Marcus shouted.
What would happen if he failed to relay the message right now?
If the central tower went down, the entire line would be paralyzed. The first public demonstration would end in catastrophe.
Through the telescope, he could see the tower from Ostia was still sending its signals.
"I'll climb up there and send the signal manually!"
"But how?!"
"I'll use the Caesar signal! Keep reading the signals to me!"
Leaving his panicked partner behind, Marcus scrambled up the wooden ladder.
At the very top of the structure, there was a cramped repair platform near the top.
Grabbing a spare flag, Marcus hauled himself onto the platform.
The usual method was to use the mechanical wooden arms during the day and the braziers at night.
But that didn't mean it was the only way to communicate.
"I can send Caesar's signal using just a flag," Marcus murmured.
The genius of Lucius Caesar's signal was that any letter or number could be transmitted using only two alternating states.
A light on, then a light off.
By the same logic, raising a flag and lowering it would work just as well.
The 'Caesar signal' was one thing the operators had practiced more than anything else over the past few weeks.
Marcus was confident he could execute it with his eyes closed.
But the problem was whether the next tower would notice what he meant.
"Long—Short—Long—Short—Short!"
"Keep going!"
Following his partner's frantic shouting from below, Marcus whipped the flag up and down in rapid, precise bursts.
After what felt like an eternity, the wooden arms of the next tower in the relay finally began to move.
Seeing it, Marcus roared at the top of his lungs.
"They received our transmission!"
"Yes! Keep it going! Don't stop!"
As Marcus swung his flag through the biting wind, the next towers came alive in turn, carrying his signal all the way to Rome.
***
"It's a transmission received from Ostia!"
At Vitruvius's shout, a gasp of astonishment swept through the crowd.
"Wait, you're telling me they actually sent a message from Ostia to Rome just now?"
"Using those bizarre towers?"
"I can't believe it."
Vitruvius, grinning broadly, jogged over and stopped in front of me.
Catching his breath, he handed me a small slip of papyrus.
"Sir, would you do us the honor?"
"Thank you."
I nodded.
Honestly, deciding to hold a public demonstration today had been a purely impulsive whim. I hadn't expected such a massive turnout.
Naturally, the towers couldn't be built inside the pomerium, so the last relay station was erected just outside the city walls.
It was the terminus of the very first communication line connecting Ostia and Rome.
And a massive crowd had spilled out of the city gates just to witness it.
It wasn't only commoners, either; I spotted several senators scattered among the masses.
Most of them were the men I had promised naming rights for the towers. They had likely come to see exactly what kind of contraption would bear their names.
I read the contents of the papyrus, then raised it high into the air.
"A message from Ostia to the citizens of Rome! As of this morning, a total of 22 merchant vessels have arrived at the port of Ostia!"
"...!"
The crowd stared at me, stunned.
"They really sent that from Ostia?"
"I know it's Lucius Caesar, but I still find this difficult to accept. Isn't he just reading something he prepared beforehand?"
I couldn't help but smile as skeptical murmurs spread through the crowd.
It was a completely natural reaction.
A journey to Ostia took half a day by foot or horse. The idea that a message could travel that distance in mere minutes must have seemed absurd to them. It would be stranger if they accepted it without question.
But I had a very simple way to sweep away their doubts.
Waving the papyrus in the air, I shouted so the entire crowd could hear.
"We will run a five-day trial run to ensure stability. After that, any Roman citizen will be able to use these towers for a reasonable fee!"
"Wait, is that true?!"
I nodded reassuringly and let the citizens break into excited chatter.
"To be able to send a letter to Ostia that quickly... it's a miracle."
"Well, he wouldn't offer it to the public if it was a parlor trick."
"Exactly. What kind of fool would tell a lie that would be exposed in five days?"
"If this really spreads across all of Italy... shouldn't we try to get our names on them too?"
"Which region has the tower named for me?"
"If I can get the shipping news from Ostia before the other merchants, the profits will be enormous!"
As the citizens engaged in heated and greedy speculation, Vitruvius stepped up beside me.
"Is Felix not joining us today?"
"He said he had some urgent business to attend to," I replied with a shrug.
Come to think of it, Felix had been avoiding me of late. Maybe I'd have to question him the next time I saw him.
Just then, Vitruvius leaned in and lowered his voice.
"Actually, there was a small malfunction at the midpoint tower. A lever jammed, so the wooden arms wouldn't deploy. The operator apparently climbed out and transmitted the signals manually using a flag."
"That's some brilliant improvisation. Looks like our strict selection paid off."
"I completely agree," Vitruvius nodded proudly. "We haven't sent a confirmation reply to Ostia yet. Do you have a specific message you'd like to transmit?"
"A reply, huh..."
I could just send a standard 'Message Received,' but that lacked a certain theatrical flair.
Ah, this would be perfect.
A thought struck me at once, and I couldn't hold back a laugh.
"Send them this."
It was a phrase uniquely suited for the occasion.
"Veni, vidi, mīsī."
The Latin words were short, sharp, and memorable.
"Came, Saw, Sent."
***
A few days after the wildly successful tower demonstration.
Just as the towers were preparing for full operation, a new group of guests arrived at my house.
"Sir Caesar, we implore you to build these towers in our region as well."
"For years, our citizens have suffered constant raids from other Gallic tribes and the Germanics. If we were connected to Rome via your towers, it would be a tremendous blessing."
"Please, put your worries aside. I am already drawing up plans to expand the towers to your cities."
I nodded, shaking each of their hands.
These men were different from the typical Roman clients who visited my atrium. They had broader builds and spoke Latin with a thick, heavy accent.
They were all prominent men of Cisalpine Gaul province.
Cisalpine Gaul encompassed the northern region of Italy, including what would eventually become modern-day Milan, Turin, Bologna, and Verona.
"Years ago, Sir Crassus promised to grant us Gallic citizens full Roman citizenship. But we haven't seen a shred of progress since," one of the men said with a heavy sigh.
"We can endure life without citizenship. But if we had these towers, our homeland would finally be free from the terror of barbarian raids."
"On the honor of the Julian clan, I promise you this: your cities will be connected to Rome within two years."
"We are eternally grateful, sir Caesar. If you ever require our assistance, you have but to say the word. Anything in our power..."
The men bowed deeply, pouring out their gratitude.
After enduring another twenty minutes of profuse thanks, I finally managed to walk them out to the front gates.
As I walked back into the atrium, someone was waiting for me with an amused smile.
It was Pompeia.
"You're always so busy, Lucius."
"Sorry for keeping you waiting. We were right in the middle of a good conversation," I said, sinking back into my chair.
We had been enjoying a series of dates lately, but my schedule overseeing the tower works had left me no room to breathe.
Now that the network was finally launching, I had decided to take a short, well-earned rest.
"Oh, it's quite alright. Watching you work is actually very entertaining," Pompeia said with a soft smile. "If the towers connect to Cisalpine Gaul, the residents there will undoubtedly become fiercely loyal to the Julian clan."
"But most of them don't have Roman citizenship. Which means they don't have the right to vote."
To be precise, a tiny minority of them did.
The Roman Senate had occasionally granted citizenship to a handful of influential local elites.
However, most of them only held Latin Rights, not full Roman citizenship.
Historically, they only gained full citizenship after my father, Julius Caesar, crossed the Rubicon and sparked the civil war.
He promised them citizenship in exchange for their support.
"But they will inevitably gain Roman citizenship one day. Just like the citizens of Ostia did," Pompeia pointed out. "Just how many political clients are you planning to amass?"
"I think that's quite enough political talk for one day," I chuckled, raising my wine goblet.
Pompeia seemed to have a far sharper mind for politics than her father. Pompey absolutely loathed giving speeches in the Forum, and he hated appearing in the courts even more.
"I'd much rather discuss philosophy with you."
"Shall we start with Plato, then?"
We spent the afternoon talking idly of this and that.
As we spoke, my conversation with Julia from a few weeks ago surfaced in my mind.
Ever since I had been reborn as Caesar's son, I was terrified that my family's everyday life would change.
That was probably why I instinctively deflected any talk of marriage.
But I couldn't remain the sheltered son of Caesar and Cornelia forever.
Starting a new family, huh?
Just as Julia had said, Pompeia was a genuinely wonderful person.
But what did Pompeia actually think of me?
"Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you today."
Just as I leaned forward to broach the subject, heavy footsteps approached us.
"Young Master."
"Felix, I distinctly remember telling you I was on vacation today..."
I turned my head and was surprised at the sight of Felix's face.
I thought I was looking at a walking corpse.
With the hollow, lifeless eyes of a man whose soul had left his body, Felix handed me a papyrus scroll.
"I am so incredibly sorry. But there is something you urgently need to see."
What on earth could be this disastrous?
I took the scroll from his trembling hands.
"The Egyptian papyrus merchants have announced they will restrict their supply?"
"Yes. Below that is a ledger listing our current papyrus consumption across all our ventures, alongside our remaining stock."
"This is worse than I thought."
As my eyes scanned the numbers, the sheer scale of the crisis became obvious at once.
Our sprawling businesses were consuming an enormous amount of papyrus, and as the market price skyrocketed, our operating costs were soaring.
"Why didn't you bring this to me sooner?"
"I tried to resolve it myself by securing additional surplus stock, but..." Felix hung his head in absolute shame.
"The merchants saw what was happening in the market and joined hands against us. They all simultaneously cut back their output."
"Well, practically all the world's papyrus comes from Egypt."
When there are many producers, fierce competition drives prices down. But when there's an oligopoly, they collude to artificially inflate prices.
Seeing our sudden, massive spike in demand, they were trying to squeeze every last drop of profit out of us.
Maybe Felix had tried to solve this alone because he didn't want to burden me.
"This is entirely my fault," Felix sighed. "I'm sure you already have a solution in mind, don't you? Whenever I mentioned the papyrus costs before, you never seemed particularly worried."
"Well, yes, there is a way, but..."
"I knew you were going to say that."
Instead of looking relieved, Felix's face twisted into an expression of despair and resignation.
Did I say something wrong?
"You have a remarkably loyal subordinate," Pompeia chimed in. "Most men would immediately run crying to their patrons the moment a problem arose, even if it was something they could solve themselves."
"Felix is highly competent. And to be fair, this wasn't an issue that could be solved simply by working harder."
As I praised him, Felix aggressively pointedly avoided eye contact.
That was a very suspicious reaction.
In the 17th century, many cities around the world including London suffered the same problem.
Horse manure.
They used horse-drawn wagons in the cities, and as their numbers increased, horse waste was piling up on the city streets which was unhygienic.
Horses dying on the street was another major problem.
Many bright minds tried to solve this issue, but nothing worked.
And this problem was solved by one change: the automobile.
As cars started to replace horses, people no longer had to deal with all that horse manure.
Of course cars brought problems of their own, but they were far better than horses.
The problem before us now had a similar solution.
"Regardless, there is a very simple solution to this. We're going to make our own papyrus."
"We are going to manufacture it ourselves?" Felix asked, blinking in confusion. "But the papyrus reeds only grow along the Nile. Several merchants have attempted to cultivate them in Italy, and every single one has failed."
"We don't necessarily have to use papyrus. We can make something even better."
I rubbed the scroll in my hands.
It was light and slightly stiff, and when I rubbed it with my fingertips, I could feel the subtle grain of the plant fibers.
It was completely different from the smooth, refined paper of the 21st century.
Come to think of it, paper was a miracle of human ingenuity. I had just taken it for granted because it was everywhere in the 21st century.
"We can manufacture a superior alternative using materials we already have lying around."
The Chinese first invented paper back in the 2nd century BC.
By this point, paper had already existed in the East for over a century.
It was about time I introduced the Romans to the convenience of it.
However, there was a practical hurdle.
"Even if we start developing this 'new papyrus' immediately, it will take time to perfect. And we still need to keep the businesses running in the meantime, which means..."
"Which means we have no choice but to buy the Egyptian stock at extortionate prices," Felix finished bleakly. "I apologize again for bringing this to you so late, Young Master."
"No, it's fine. The temporary loss isn't actually that big of a deal."
I couldn't just magically conjure a fully operational paper mill out of thin air.
Even with the knowledge of how to make it, putting it into practice was another matter entirely.
It would take considerable time for Vitruvius and the engineers to experiment with methods of pulping the fibers, build the necessary presses, and adapt the water mills to the new process.
Just then, Pompeia, who had been quietly listening to our exchange, sat up straight.
"Lucius, as you well know, the pirates launched a devastating raid on the port of Ostia a few years ago."
"Right. And shortly after, your father was granted imperium to eradicate them," I nodded.
That event was the exact reason I had the political leverage to build the Ostia Towers in the first place.
But why was she bringing that up now?
"When Ostia was attacked, the price of grain in Rome increased instantaneously, as all our food imports flow through that port," Pompeia explained. "However, the very moment the Senate announced that my father had been appointed to command the campaign against pirates, the price of grain plummeted by more than half. Long before he had even set sail."
"...Ah."
I realized exactly what she was getting at.
How could I have overlooked such a fundamental economic principle?
Felix looked back and forth between the two of us, utterly bewildered.
"What exactly does that mean?"
"The price of a good isn't determined solely by current demand. It's heavily influenced by the expectations of future demand," I explained, a wicked grin spreading across my face.
If people expect a good will become scarce in the future, the price immediately spikes.
By contrast, if people believe a cheaper alternative will soon flood the market, the price crashes.
Ancient Rome already understood what later ages would call futures markets.
"If you simply announce to the public that you are on the verge of producing a new alternative to papyrus, their current stock will lose much of its value," Pompeia said.
"And every citizen in Rome has already seen Palmolive and the communication towers."
"You're right."
I nodded as I looked at Pompeia.
To think that my words could now move the economic tides of the Roman Republic.
The realization was deeply intoxicating.
"Right now, there isn't a single soul in Rome who would take my words lightly."