Trumpus Maximus

• Chapter 1 Make Rome Great Again
• Chapter 2 I Alone Can Fix the Aqueducts
• Chapter 3 The Fake News from the Senate Scribes
• Chapter 4 Building a Wall, and Making the Gauls Pay for It
• Chapter 5 The Art of the Deal with the Parthian Empire
• Chapter 6 My Legions are the Best Legions
• Chapter 7 Lyin' Brutus and the Crooked Senators
• Chapter 8 Draining the Cloaca Maxima
• Chapter 9 The Lamestream Papyrus
• Chapter 10 The Silent Plebeian Majority
• Chapter 11 A Very Stable Genius at the Rostra
• Chapter 12 The Witch Hunt of the Praetorian Guard
• Chapter 13 We Have the Best Gladiators, Don't We?
• Chapter 14 The Chariot-Gate Scandal
• Chapter 15 Nobody Knows More About Triumphs Than I Do
• Chapter 16 A Perfectly Normal Phone Call with Pontius Pilate
• Chapter 17 The Nasty Woman from Alexandria
• Chapter 18 Frankly, We Won That Battle
• Chapter 19 My Oratory is Tremendous, the Best Oratory
• Chapter 20 Covfefe and Other Imperial Decrees
• Chapter 21 They're Not Sending Their Best: The Barbarian Problem
• Chapter 22 The Beautiful, Tremendous Villa I Built
• Chapter 23 Sad! The Decline of the Former Emperors
• Chapter 24 A Beautiful Letter from King Herod
• Chapter 25 The Greatest Reign, Believe Me
• Afterword

The sun beat down upon the Forum Romanum, a sun that seemed, to the assembled masses, to shine with a newfound intensity. They said it was the biggest crowd the Forum had ever seen, maybe in the history of Rome. Scribes from the Acta Diurna, the fake news papyrus of its day, would later report smaller numbers, but the people who were there, the real people, they knew. They had crammed into every available space, spilling out from the Basilica Aemilia, clinging to the steps of the Temple of Castor and Pollux, a sea of sweating, expectant faces turned towards the Rostra. They had been waiting for hours, a great, silent majority that was, for the first time, not so silent.

Then, he appeared. Trumpus Maximus. He ascended the speaker's platform not with the careful, measured steps of the old patrician class, but with a confident, almost pugnacious stride. His toga was the finest purple, of course, but it was his hair that truly captivated. A swirling, golden-orange helmet of hair that defied the wind and seemed to possess its own unique architectural principles. He approached the edge, gripped the sides of the Rostra, and scanned the crowd, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. He let the roar wash over him for a long, long moment. It was a beautiful sound. A tremendous sound.

"Wow," he began, his voice, aided by a cleverly designed series of bronze amplifiers, booming across the Forum. "What a turnout. What a crowd. They're telling me—people are saying—this is the biggest crowd in the history of acclamations. The biggest ever. The lamestream scribes won't report it, of course. They'll say it was a small crowd. Sad! But we know the truth, don't we? We know." The crowd roared its assent, a single, unified beast. He had them. He had them before he’d even started.

"For too long," he continued, his tone shifting from celebratory to somber, "for far too long, we have stood by and watched as our beautiful, tremendous Empire was run into the ground by politicians. The worst politicians. Incompetent. All of them. They don't know how to make a deal. They've made Rome weak. They've let the barbarians laugh at us. But that is all going to change. Starting right here, and starting right now, we are going to Make Rome Great Again!" The slogan, simple and powerful, erupted from the crowd. Banners, hastily painted with "MRGA," waved furiously under the Italian sun.

He gestured vaguely back towards the Palatine Hill, where the palaces of his predecessors stood. "The emperors who came before me? Low energy. So low energy. They would have been sleeping right now. They made terrible deals with everyone. Just terrible. They let our enemies walk all over us, and what did we get? Nothing. We got nothing. It’s a disgrace. Our once-great legions are depleted, their armor is rusty, and their pila are dull. Believe me, I know these things."

He leaned forward, as if sharing a secret with the thousands gathered before him. "Take the grain deal with Egypt. It’s the worst deal, maybe in the history of deals. We send them our best olive oil, the most beautiful amphorae of wine, and our finest pottery. The best in the world. And what do they send us? Grain. Just grain. Everyone has grain. And they charge us a fortune! We're losing, people. We're losing on every front. We’re being treated like fools."

His gaze hardened as he looked towards the northern horizon. "And the barbarians. They are not sending us their best, are they? They're sending Goths with problems, and they’re bringing those problems with them. They’re bringing crime. They’re Vandals. And some, I assume, are good people. But they pour across our borders, they laugh at our customs, and our leaders in the Senate do nothing. They do nothing because they are weak and ineffective."

Then, he opened his arms wide, embracing the entire Forum. "But you people know. The silent majority. The real Romans. The plebeians, the farmers, the merchants, the legionaries. You work hard, you love this Empire, and you have been forgotten. For too long, you have had no voice. Well, now you have a voice. I am your voice!" The cheer that answered this was deafening, a visceral cry of hope and frustration unleashed.

"I’m not a politician," he declared, thumping a fist on the Rostra. "I have spent my life building things. I have built the most beautiful, tremendous villas you have ever seen. Villas with so much marble, it would make your head spin. I know how to build. And now, we are going to rebuild Rome. We are going to rebuild our roads, our aqueducts, and our legions. It will be the greatest rebuilding this world has ever seen."

He turned and pointed a thumb dramatically towards the Curia Hostilia, the Senate House. "And you see those people in there? The crooked senators? They are part of the problem. A big part. They are the swamp. They sit in their fancy chambers, getting rich off your taxes, while our infrastructure crumbles. They are a disaster. But we’re going to fix it. We are going to drain the Cloaca Maxima!" The crowd loved the line, laughing and cheering at the crude, powerful image.

"They say it can’t be done," he scoffed, his face a mask of theatrical disbelief. "The experts—the so-called experts—they say, ‘Trumpus, you can’t possibly build a wall across the northern frontier.’ They say, ‘Trumpus, you can’t make the Gauls pay for it.’ Why not? Tell me, why not? We are Rome! We can do anything. We are the greatest empire in the history of the world, and we are going to start acting like it again."

The idea, once absurd, now seemed to catch fire in the public imagination. A wall. A great, big, beautiful wall. "It’s going to be a great, great wall," he promised, his voice rising with passion. "The best wall. With beautiful, tremendous doors. And the Gauls are going to pay for it. One hundred percent. They may not know it yet, but they’re going to pay. Believe me. Believe me."

He simplified the complex geopolitics of the day into a few, easily digestible points. "It’s simple, folks. Not complicated. You need strong borders. You need fair trade deals. And you need a military that is so powerful, nobody will ever dare to challenge you. The philosophers in their togas, they write endless scrolls about this stuff, but they don't get it. They don’t have a clue."

"And the scribes," he said, shaking his head with disgust. "The fake news scribes. They are the enemy of the people. Truly. They write whatever they want on their little papyrus scrolls. All lies. Slander. We ought to change the libel laws in Rome, so when they write things that are totally false, we can sue them and take all their money. We’re going to look into that very, very strongly."

He softened his expression and pointed into the crowd once more. "But you people are smart. You’re smarter than all of them. You see right through their lies. That’s why you’re here today. You are the greatest people on Earth. The most loyal people. And I love you. I truly do." A wave of affection, genuine and palpable, flowed back and forth between the man on the Rostra and the masses below.

He returned to his favorite topic: his own expertise. "Nobody knows more about construction than I do. The Appian Way? It's a disaster. I rode a chariot on it the other day. Potholes everywhere. You can’t have a great empire with bad roads. We’re going to repave the whole thing. It’ll be so smooth, so beautiful. Our chariots will glide. It’s going to be fantastic."

The military was next. "Our legions are filled with the greatest soldiers in the world. The best. But the politicians have neglected them. They send them off to fight in faraway lands with old equipment. It’s a disgrace. We are going to give our legionaries new armor—the best polished bronze—and new pila, new gladius swords. We are going to invest in our military like never before. And we are going to start winning again. We are going to win so much, you might even get tired of winning!" The crowd roared. They would never get tired of winning.

A vision of the future was painted in broad, glorious strokes. "Imagine a Rome with secure borders, where our families are safe. Imagine a Rome where our merchants are making the best deals, bringing wealth back to our city. Imagine a Rome that is respected and, yes, feared once again. That is the Rome we are going to build together. And it’s going to be a beautiful thing."

He couldn't resist another jab at his political rivals. "Lyin' Brutus and his crooked friends in the Senate, they don't want this to happen. They like things just the way they are. It’s a rigged system, and they’re the ones rigging it. They get rich while you, the plebeians, get poorer. It’s a sad, sad situation. But we’re going to change it."

His eyes found a grizzled Centurion standing near the front, his scarred face a testament to years of service. Trumpus pointed directly at him. "I see that man right there. A great man. A hero. A patriot. Look at him. He loves Rome. We are doing this for him. We are doing this for all of our great soldiers and our great veterans. We are going to take care of you. The best care." The Centurion, stunned, stood a little straighter, a flicker of pride in his weary eyes.

The subject of trade was clearly one of his great passions. "The Parthian Empire. They think they can outsmart us. They send us their cheap silks, their flimsy textiles, and they take our gold and silver. It's a massive trade deficit. Massive. That ends now. We are going to negotiate new deals. Fair deals. And if they don't want to be fair, that’s fine. We’ll just put a huge tariff on their silks. Believe me, their merchants will be begging for a deal within a week. They need us more than we need them."

His attention turned to the city itself. "And we are going to fix our inner city. The Subura. It's a total disaster. You have crime, you have filth, you have insulae that are falling down. It’s not safe. We are going to bring back law and order. We need law and order. We are going to clean it up and make it safe for every Roman citizen."

He paused, letting the wave of promises wash over the audience. "People ask me, very smart people, they ask, 'Trumpus, how will you do all of this? How is it possible?' And I tell them, you have to know the art of the deal. And you have to have a certain kind of intellect. A very stable genius. It’s not something you can learn from a scroll. You either have it, or you don't."

More promises followed, each one met with a fresh wave of enthusiasm. "We will cut taxes for the plebeian class. A huge tax cut. The biggest in Roman history. We are going to get rid of the burdensome regulations that are strangling our small businesses. So many regulations. You can't even build a simple bakery without filling out a hundred different forms on a hundred different scrolls. We’re getting rid of it."

He dismissed the inevitable criticism from the intellectual elite. "The philosophers over in Athens, they'll sit in their ivory towers and they'll criticize us. Let them. They don't understand the real world. They don’t understand the forgotten man and the forgotten woman of this Empire. They talk, we build. It's that simple."

The scale of his ambition was breathtaking, almost messianic. "This is not just another acclamation. This is a movement. This is a revolution, the likes of which the world has never seen before. It's going to be historic. It’s going to be huge. You are all part of it. You are the pioneers of this great new chapter for Rome."

He gestured to his family, standing discreetly to the side of the Rostra. "My family is here today. A great family. The best. My daughter Ivankia, my sons Donatus Juniorus and Ericus. They love this Empire so much, and they work so hard. They’re going to be a tremendous asset, a tremendous asset."

The energy in the Forum was electric. The chants of "TRUM-PUS! TRUM-PUS! TRUM-PUS!" became a steady, rhythmic drumbeat. Red banners bearing his family crest, a golden eagle clutching a lightning bolt, waved from every corner. It was a sea of red, a sea of adoration.

"The forgotten men and women of Rome will be forgotten no longer," he declared, his voice ringing with finality. "From this day forward, a new vision will govern our land. From this day forward, it is going to be only Rome first! Rome first!"

He raised his hands to quiet the crowd for his final pronouncement. "So to all Romans, in every city and on every farm, in every province near and far, listen to these words: You will never be ignored again. Your time has come. Your voice will be heard!"

He took a deep breath, savoring the moment. "And together, we will make our legions strong again. We will make our coffers wealthy again. We will make our cities proud again. And we will, I promise you, Make… Rome… Great… Again! Thank you! And may the gods bless Rome!" He pumped a fist in the air, gave the crowd his signature two-handed wave, and then a confident thumbs-up. The Forum erupted in a final, cataclysmic roar.

He descended the steps of the Rostra, eschewing formal protocol. Instead of retreating with his Praetorian Guard, he plunged directly into the front rows of his most ardent supporters, shaking hands, clapping backs. He stopped before the grizzled Centurion he had pointed out earlier, clasping the soldier's forearm. "We're going to take care of you and your men," Trumpus said. "The best care. The best equipment. You just watch."

As he moved on, he caught the eye of a prominent senator, a known critic, who was watching the scene from the steps of the Curia with an expression of pure contempt. Trumpus Maximus paused, looked the man directly in the eye, and mouthed a single, dismissive word: "Sad!" Then he turned his back and continued his triumphant procession.

The walk back to the Palatine Hill was like a victory parade before a single battle had been fought. Adoring citizens lined the route, reaching out to touch the hem of his purple toga, chanting his name. It was everything he had ever imagined. It was better. The establishment was in shock, the people were ecstatic, and he was in control.

Once inside the sprawling, opulent imperial palace, his first official act as Emperor of Rome had nothing to do with policy, military command, or provincial administration. He surveyed the cavernous atrium, with its faded frescoes and somber décor, and scrunched his face in disgust. "This place is a dump," he announced to his bewildered aides. "A total dump. We need more gold. A lot more gold. And get rid of these sad, gray tapestries. Let's get some nice victory scenes up. Big ones. And my name. In big, gold letters. Right over the main entrance."

Later that evening, he stood on a high balcony, looking out over the seven hills of his city. The distant roar of the crowds could still be heard. The scale of the task, and of his promises, was immense. The Senate despised him, the old families feared him, and the Empire’s problems were very, very real. But as he gazed upon the marble temples and winding streets, there was not a flicker of doubt in his mind. Only boundless, unshakeable confidence.

"They all said it couldn't be done," he murmured to himself, a small smile on his face. "They said a builder, a businessman from outside the corrupt political class, could never become Emperor. They were wrong. So wrong. And we're just getting started. It’s going to be beautiful." The sun finally set behind the Capitoline Hill, casting long, dark shadows across the Forum. For the Roman Empire, a new and unpredictable day had dawned. It was going to be a tremendous day. The best day. Everyone agreed.

The Imperial Palace on the Palatine Hill was no longer a place of quiet, dignified governance. It had become a whirlwind of activity, a construction site masquerading as the heart of an empire. The somber frescoes Trumpus Maximus had so despised were being scraped from the walls, replaced by garish, hastily painted scenes of his own imagined triumphs. The air was thick with the dust of pulverized plaster and the incessant, deafening clang of hammers against bronze. It was in this chaotic symphony of renovation that the Emperor convened his first infrastructure summit.

He sat upon a newly commissioned throne, a monstrous thing of carved mahogany and what appeared to be an entire legion's worth of polished gold. It was so large his feet barely touched the marble floor. Before him, huddled in a nervous semi-circle, were the greatest minds in Roman engineering: the curatores aquarum, the keepers of the water supply, and the most respected architects and builders in the city. They were men accustomed to dealing in precise measurements, in the immutable laws of physics and the patient, sober work of maintaining a civilization. They were not, however, accustomed to this.

“So,” Trumpus began, his voice echoing slightly in the half-finished atrium. “The water. People are telling me the water is a disaster. A total disaster. Fountains are weak. Low-flow. The baths are not as hot as they should be. It’s a disgrace. You people have been in charge for decades. Decades! And what have you done? Nothing. Sad!” He gestured dismissively at the assembled experts, a collection of gray-bearded men clutching scrolls filled with intricate diagrams.

A senior engineer, a respected man named Vitruvius Minor, known for his meticulous, scholarly approach, stepped forward. He unrolled a large papyrus showing a cross-section of the Aqua Marcia. “Emperor,” he began, his voice calm and academic, “the situation is complex. As you can see from these schematics, decades of mineral deposits—what we call sintering—have narrowed the channels. We also face structural fatigue in the load-bearing arches near the Via Latina, a result of seismic activity over the last century.”

Trumpus stared at the detailed drawing with a blank expression, his eyes glazing over. He let Vitruvius speak for another minute about flow rates, hydraulic gradients, and the challenges of sourcing high-quality pozzolanic ash before he finally raised a hand. “Boring,” he announced loudly. The hammering in the next room seemed to pause for a beat. “So boring. It’s all very complicated, isn’t it? That’s what you people always say. ‘It’s complicated.’ You know what I think? I think you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Vitruvius Minor blinked, his professional composure momentarily shattered. “Emperor, with all due respect, my family has overseen the aqueducts since the days of the divine Augustus. We understand the science…”

“The science!” Trumpus scoffed. “Look, it’s not science, it’s plumbing. Okay? The water goes in one end, it comes out the other. You have bad pipes. You have weak arches. I get it. I’ve built the most tremendous villas, with the best plumbing. Nobody knows more about plumbing than I do. The water pressure in my villa at Baiae? Incredible. The best. Everyone agrees.” He leaned forward, an idea sparking in his eyes. “We’re not going to fix these old, disgusting aqueducts. We’re going to build a new one. A tremendous one.”

A murmur went through the group of engineers. A new aqueduct hadn’t been built in nearly fifty years. The cost, the sheer scale of the undertaking, was staggering.

“It’s going to be the greatest aqueduct anyone has ever seen,” Trumpus continued, his enthusiasm building. “It’s going to be so tall. The tallest. People will come from all over the world just to look at it. And it’s going to have my name on it. We’ll call it… the Aqua Trumpia. Beautiful. Simple. Strong.”

Vitruvius, recovering his nerve, tried to interject. “But Emperor, the height of an aqueduct is determined by the elevation of its source and the required gradient to maintain flow. We can’t simply make it taller for aesthetic purposes. The laws of nature…”

“Wrong,” Trumpus said flatly. “You’re thinking small. You have no vision. We’ll find a taller mountain. The best mountain, with the most water. And the arches… they’re going to be huge. The biggest, most beautiful arches. And we’ll cover them in gold leaf. So when the sun hits it, the whole thing will shine. It’ll be a landmark.” He turned to his son-in-law, Jaredus Kushnerus, a quiet, pale young man who stood silently behind the throne, observing everything. “Jaredus, make a note: lots of gold leaf. The best.”

Jaredus nodded, making a swift gesture to a scribe. The engineers looked at each other in disbelief. Gold leaf on an aqueduct? The extravagance was not just vulgar; it was pointless.

The city’s quaestor, a man named Cassius Pertinax, who was responsible for the public treasury, cleared his throat nervously. “A most magnificent vision, Emperor,” he began, his voice trembling slightly. “However, the aerarium… the treasury is… strained. The cost of such a monumental undertaking, especially with the proposed decorative elements, would be… well, it would be unprecedented.”

Trumpus waved his hand, dismissing the concern entirely. “The money is not a problem. Don’t worry about the money. I know money. We’re losing a fortune on that stupid grain deal with Egypt. A total rip-off. We’re going to renegotiate it. A great deal. It’ll pay for the whole aqueduct, maybe twice over. It’s called leverage. They don’t teach you that in your boring book clubs.”

He then pointed a finger at Vitruvius. “You people are the problem. The establishment. The swamp. You like having broken aqueducts. It’s good for business, isn’t it? A little patch here, a little repair there. It’s a whole industry. A corrupt industry. You don’t want a new aqueduct because it would put you all out of a job. It’s a disgrace.”

The accusation hung in the dusty air. These were dedicated public servants, men who had spent their lives in the service of Rome’s vital infrastructure. To be called corrupt, to be accused of profiting from decay, was a profound insult. But before anyone could protest, Trumpus Maximus was on his feet, pacing before his gaudy throne.

“They told me I couldn’t become Emperor,” he boomed. “The experts, the crooked senators, the fake news scribes. They all said it was impossible. But I did it. And now they say we can’t build a great, beautiful, golden aqueduct. They say it’s too expensive, too tall, too complicated. You know what I say? I say I alone can fix it!”

He strode over to a large table where a detailed scale model of Rome was displayed. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, showing every temple, insula, and road with painstaking accuracy. With a dramatic flourish, he located the model of the Aqua Marcia, a graceful, slender line of arches winding its way into the city.

“Sad,” he muttered, flicking one of the miniature arches with his finger. Then, with a sudden, shocking movement, he swept the entire length of the model aqueduct off the table. The delicate structure of wood and clay shattered on the marble floor. The engineers gasped. The quaestor looked as if he was about to faint.

“We need a new model,” Trumpus announced to the stunned room. He snapped his fingers. “Donatus! Ericus! Bring it in!”

His two sons, Donatus Juniorus and Ericus, entered from a side chamber, carrying a large, crudely made model of their own. It was a monstrosity. The arches were thick and disproportionately large, the channel was a deep, wide trough, and the entire thing was slathered in shimmering gold paint. They placed it on the main table with a heavy thud, its new path carving a straight, brutal line from the edge of the model to the center of the city, crashing through existing neighborhoods and sacred groves.

“See?” Trumpus said proudly, gesturing at the glittering object. “Bigger. Stronger. Better. And look,” he pointed to the side, where large, clumsy letters had been affixed, “it says ‘TRUMPIA.’ Fantastic branding.”

Vitruvius Minor stared at the model in horror. The proposed path was a logistical nightmare, ignoring topography and property rights. The design itself was an engineering absurdity. “Emperor,” he pleaded, his voice cracking, “this… this design defies the principles of physics. The weight, the sheer mass of it… the foundations would never hold. It would collapse under its own…”

“You’re fired,” Trumpus interrupted, pointing a single, decisive finger at the old engineer. The words, so common in the world of business Trumpus hailed from, were utterly alien to the Roman system of lifelong appointments. A stunned silence fell over the room, broken only by the distant, rhythmic hammering. “Get him out of here. He’s a negative person. A loser. No vision.”

Praetorian guards, unsure of the protocol for such a command, hesitated for a moment before awkwardly escorting the bewildered Vitruvius Minor from the atrium. Trumpus watched him go, a look of profound satisfaction on his face. He had faced the expert, the establishment, and he had won.

He scanned the faces of the remaining officials, who now stood frozen in a state of terrified compliance. “Anyone else?” he asked, a challenging glint in his eye. “Anyone else think it can’t be done?”

No one dared to speak. The quaestor was visibly sweating, his eyes fixed on the shattered remains of the old model on the floor. The other engineers stared at their sandals, their scrolls now clutched like useless relics of a bygone era of reason and logic.

“Good,” Trumpus said with a nod. “We need doers, not talkers. We need people who can get things done. I’m putting Jaredus in charge of this project.” He clapped his son-in-law on the shoulder. “He’s a great kid. Very smart. He’ll get it done, on time and under budget. And after he fixes the aqueducts, he’s going to bring peace to Judea. It’s not that complicated. It’s a real estate deal.”

Jaredus Kushnerus gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. He had no experience in engineering, public works, or Middle Eastern diplomacy, but he radiated an unshakeable, quiet confidence that seemed to please the Emperor.

Trumpus Maximus returned to his throne, settling into the golden monstrosity. He looked at the gilded, ridiculous model of his aqueduct, which now dominated the map of Rome like a scar. “We’re going to rebuild this whole city,” he declared to the captive audience. “We’re going to repave the Appian Way. So smooth. Our chariots will glide on it. We’re going to build new forums, new temples—the best temples. Everything is going to have my name on it. It’s going to be a beautiful thing to watch.”

He picked up a gilded grape from a nearby bowl and popped it into his mouth. “Now, get to work,” he commanded. “I want to see cranes—big, beautiful cranes—in the sky by next week. Make it happen.”

The officials bowed hastily and practically ran from the room, desperate to escape the Emperor’s chaotic presence. They left him alone with his sons, his son-in-law, and the glittering model of his impossible dream. The distant hammering started up again, a steady, relentless beat. It was the sound of the old Rome being chipped away, and the new Rome—louder, cruder, and covered in gold—being built. Trumpus Maximus smiled. It was the sound of winning.