And He Fiddled While It Burned
Current and Historical Events. 450 words, 2 minute read. With Gemini and ChatGPT.
The noise from the city was an annoyance. Emperor Magnus Aurelius Trumpus adjusted the heavy gold ring on his finger, the one bearing his own profile. Power felt good. Solid. Why couldn't they understand?
Servius entered, smelling faintly of sweat and fear. Bad combination. "Emperor," he began, voice tight, "the docks are aflame. Riots near the Forum Boarium. They're shouting about the grain shortages, the tariffs..."
(Tariffs? My brilliant tariffs? They should be cheering.) "Fair duties on foreign luxuries," Trumpus corrected, his voice smooth. "It's called putting Rome First, Servius. A concept these… citizens seem unable to grasp." He waved a dismissive hand. "Tell Sabinus to handle his Vigiles better."
"The Vigiles are overwhelmed, Emperor! They burn warehouses—symbols of trade!" Servius stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Sabinus requests permission to deploy the Praetorians. He fears… escalation."
(Fears? Weak.) "Permission granted. Tell Sabinus escalation is the point. Remind them who holds the reins." Trumpus frowned. "And tell him to stop whining. Loyalty, Servius. That's the currency I value." (These fools need a strong hand. My hand.)
The sun bled out of the sky. The roaring from below grew teeth. Smoke, thick and greasy, smeared the twilight. From the terrace, where untouched pheasant grew cold on silver platters, the city pulsed with an ugly orange light. Fires blossomed like diseased flowers.
Trumpus watched, swirling his deep red Falernian wine. The destruction had a certain… grandeur. (Such energy! All because of me.)
Servius stood rigidly beside him, face pale in the firelight. "The grain stores are lost, Emperor. The Street of the Bankers burns. The system… it fractures."
Trumpus squinted, pointing with his goblet towards a particularly fierce blaze near the Capitoline hill. "Is my Triumphal Arch project safe?" (Priorities, Servius. Legacy.)
Servius flinched. "Emperor… the city…"
"The city endures," Trumpus cut him off, turning the small golden eagle trinket in his hand. He felt a strange calm. A clarity. "This is… necessary. A purification. Scouring the rot." (They resisted the change. So, the change burns them.) He admired how the firelight caught the eagle’s wings. Beautiful.
He turned his back on the spectacle, the heat, the noise. Inside, the villa was an island of cool marble and silent slaves. He caught his reflection in a polished shield – resolute, powerful, framed against the distant, flickering chaos. (History will understand. My strength.)
"Servius," he called, his voice echoing slightly in the sudden quiet, cutting through the muffled roar from outside. "Enough watching. Inform the household I require music. Something martial, stirring." He paused, struck by inspiration. "And poetry! Find the verses about Jupiter smiting the Titans." (A leader's work is never done. Must maintain morale. Mine.)