"Eating moray eel."
To the staff working under Caesar, this phrase carried several distinct meanings.
First, for the average worker, eating moray eel meant a promotion.
It meant finally crossing the threshold into the highly secretive Strategic Office.
"Did you hear? The new guy in the next office over gets to eat moray eel."
"Already? He just got here."
"He's good at what he does. Looks like the higher-ups noticed him fast."
"Lucky bastard. I'd love to eat moray eel every day."
Rumors circulated that the Strategic Office staff were given moray eel every day, free of charge.
A higher wage plus unlimited access to premium delicacies. It sounded like the ultimate dream job.
However, to the actual employees inside the Strategic Office, "eating moray eel" meant something else entirely.
"Are we seriously eating moray eel tonight?"
"I saw the cook preparing it in the kitchens."
"Damn it. So much for going home early today."
Moray eel was served as a late-night snack when work piled up and everyone had to stay late.
For the Strategic Office staff, the presence of eel on the menu was a terrifying omen.
"Give up. I just checked the kitchens myself. We're definitely eating moray eel tonight."
"But why should we be the ones organizing a festival?!"
A collective, soul-crushing groan echoed through the office.
When Caesar officially forfeited his Triumph, they had clung to a fleeting shred of hope.
"Well, I guess we don't have to prepare for a Triumph anymore. We just need to support the consular campaign, right?"
"Exactly. Looks like we finally get a breather."
Their relief had been incredibly short-lived.
"The young Caesar isn't even an aedile! Why is he taking over the festival preparations?!"
"Word is he's planning to make this Floralia grander than ever to make up for the canceled Triumph."
"But still, it's just the Floralia! Can't we just scatter some flowers around the city and be done with it?"
Shortly after that naive complaint, a new directive came down directly from Lucius Caesar.
"He wants us to prepare 'advertising.'"
"What in Jupiter's name is 'advertising'?"
***
"Selling the right to display merchant trademarks in public spaces for a fee."
Father meticulously reviewed the sketches and proposals written on the parchment.
"It's not an entirely foreign idea. When we politicians host festivals or fund public buildings, it's ultimately to get our names out there. You're proposing the exact same thing."
"And now, a new type of 'name' has emerged: the brand."
Truth be told, I had originally established the trademark laws just to crack down on the counterfeit Palmolive.
But ever since then, an increasing number of businesses had registered with the Tribunes.
Branded goods were slowly becoming a normal part of daily life in Rome.
However, the concept of advertising was still in its infancy.
The idea of a private enterprise actively "sponsoring" a public festival or sporting event simply didn't exist yet.
"Countless merchants are already making monthly donations to the Veterans' Fund. In return, they get to stamp a special mark on all their goods."
It was a badge proving their sponsorship of the veterans.
In the 21st century, it would be the equivalent of slapping an "Eco-Friendly" or "Fair Trade" sticker on a product.
And as those badges boosted their sales, more and more businesses were practically lining up to donate to the fund.
They weren't doing it out of the goodness of their hearts; it was a calculated move to increase their profit margins.
Hearing my explanation, father fell into deep thought.
Standing in front of him, I had to stifle a yawn.
Commuting back and forth between Rome and Rubicon was taking a toll on me.
It took quite a long time, but I had no choice since these kinds of matters needed more than just letters.
I could only hope nothing had happened in Rome while I was away.
"Painting these trademarks onto the racing chariots. That is certainly a novel idea," father noted.
"The chariot races are spectacles that draw the eyes of tens of thousands of citizens at once. And aediles have to spend a fortune to stage them. This will alleviate their burden."
You can't have sports without advertising.
Basketball, soccer, football, baseball, and even swimming or figure skating.
Wherever there was a crowd watching a sport, corporate sponsors were heavily involved.
Every year, corporations spent enormous sums on sports sponsorships.
Unlike ordinary events, sports advertising yielded explosive returns.
A thirty-second commercial during the Super Bowl cost millions.
This era of Rome didn't have football, but it had chariot races and gladiatorial bouts.
"When I hosted my gladiatorial games, I equipped my men with armor and weapons forged of solid silver," father recalled fondly.
"And you paid for all of it out of your own pocket. I vividly remember mother throwing a fit when she found out how much debt you took on for that stunt."
She had demanded to know what he was thinking, taking on crippling loans just for a flashy, momentary spectacle.
Father really does have an incurable flair for the dramatic—and a taste for luxury.
"There is one minor complication," I pointed out.
Roman festivals were inherently sacred, deeply intertwined with the state religion. No matter how much we framed this as a festival for the people, injecting overt commercial advertising into a holy day was bound to invite fierce accusations of sacrilege from traditionalists.
"You needn't worry too much about that," my father replied, a sly smile spreading across his face as he tapped his temple. "I'm sure the Pontifex Maximus of Rome can contrive a suitable solution for that."
I couldn't help but smirk. I had to admit, having Father back definitely made things much easier.
"Perhaps we could add something new to this festival as well."
"Something new?"
"Those toys you built using that new papyrus of yours. Or rather, since you used them to hunt down bandits, I suppose they aren't just toys anymore."
"Ah, you mean the kites."
I hadn't actually considered that.
Come to think of it, when I returned to Rome this time, I saw kids playing with crude kites in the streets.
It seemed my bandit-hunting kites had inadvertently sparked a new trend.
"Exactly. The Floralia is a festival honoring Flora, the goddess of flowers. If we launch hundreds of vibrantly painted kites into the sky, it will elevate the spectacle to entirely new heights."
"That's a brilliant idea. I'll have my men prepare them immediately."
Kites were turning out to be surprisingly versatile.
From children's toys to tools for military signaling, and now to festival decorations.
Who knew sending paper into the sky could accomplish so much?
Just then, father spoke up again.
"Your plan is highly innovative and logically sound, Lucius. If we bring the merchants into this, we can host a great festival without spending a single coin of our own. However, there is one glaring flaw."
"A flaw?"
"No one has ever attempted something like this in Rome. Which means no one has any idea if it will actually work."
"And if the merchants can't be certain of the return on their investment, they won't open their purses easily," I finished, nodding in agreement.
It was a perfectly rational assessment.
In the 21st century, radio and TV commercials were taken for granted.
But when radio was first invented, introducing advertisements took years of trial and error.
At the time, countless experts were convinced that radio held zero potential as a marketing medium.
But for this particular problem, I already had a very simple solution.
"We still have some time before the festival begins. We just have to prove the effectiveness before then."
"And do you have a method in mind?"
I leaned forward with a confident smirk.
"We let them try it for free first."
"For free?"
Father muttered the unfamiliar phrase before a slow grin spread across his face.
"So you're going to let them taste the honey first, hm?"
***
The primary reason so many Roman merchants had begun sponsoring the Veterans' Fund was the Saturnalia festival.
By announcing their sponsorships right before the massive holiday, they sought to win favor with Roman citizens during the holiday.
And that goodwill had led to an increase in sales.
"I always thought Lucius Caesar was just an eccentric noble, but this thing actually works wonders, doesn't it?"
"Absolutely. Ever since I registered my trademark and slapped the veteran's badge on my storefront, my revenue has doubled."
Those who proactively registered their brands and leveraged the system saw unprecedented profit margins.
Conversely, the stubborn traditionalists who failed to adapt to these new trends were slowly being driven out of business.
Given this shifting landscape, it was only natural for the merchants to obsessively track Lucius Caesar's every move.
If they just followed his lead, they were guaranteed to make a fortune—or at the very least, avoid going bankrupt.
"But investing a massive sum into a public festival... isn't that a bit too risky?"
"My thoughts exactly."
The merchants murmured among themselves with troubled expressions.
They were the core sponsors of the Veterans' Fund, personally invited here today by Lucius Caesar.
Felix was scheduled to address them shortly.
While Caesar hadn't explicitly stated the reason for this gathering, the merchants weren't stupid. They knew exactly what was coming.
"According to my contacts in the aediles' office, Caesar plans to extract the festival funds directly from our pockets."
"Sponsoring a festival for the citizens to enjoy is a noble deed, certainly. But from a business perspective, we might just be throwing our silver into a bottomless pit."
At that merchant's grim assessment, the others nodded in heavy agreement.
"If we pay up now, what's to stop him from demanding money from us every time there's a festival?"
"But we can't exactly refuse a direct request from the young Caesar, can we? I'm pretty sure his father will become a consul soon."
"Why don't we all just pool together the bare minimum? Just enough to save face."
"That's my plan. If we refuse entirely, he might revoke our right to use the veteran's badge."
A few moments later, they were guided by staff into a conference room.
There, sitting at the head of a long table, was Felix.
"Welcome, everyone. I apologize for the abrupt invitation, but we are operating on a rather tight schedule today," Felix said, standing up to greet them.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to cut straight to the chase."
"Yes, of course. Regarding the investments for the festival, we are all more than willing to contribute, but the current market has been somewhat challenging..."
"Excuse me?" Felix blinked in genuine confusion.
"What investments?"
"Is that not why you called us? To ask for support for the upcoming Floralia?"
"Ah. No, you misunderstand. All of you have been loyal sponsors of the Veterans' Fund. Thanks to your continued support, countless veterans have been saved from the streets."
Felix shrugged casually.
"Caesar merely wishes to present you with a fitting gift to express his gratitude."
"A gift?"
The merchants exchanged baffled looks.
This was the last thing they expected to hear today.
"Are you saying... the 'gift' is the exclusive right to sponsor the festival?" one merchant asked warily, assuming it was a trap.
Felix burst into genuine laughter.
"No, nothing like that. First things first: I need all of you to provide detailed descriptions of your products and their selling points."
Felix gestured to his clerks, who began handing out blank sheets of paper.
"Our products and their features? Why on earth do you need that?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
Felix offered them a warm smile.
"To help you make more money, of course."
***
"I thought you were planning to put up flyers across the city."
Vitruvius looked at the blueprints spread across his workbench, scratching his chin.
In response to his question, Lucius Caesar merely offered a faint smile.
"Plastering the streets with flyers is certainly the most direct method. But if we cover the city in paper weeks before the festival even begins, how do you think the citizens will react?"
"They'll complain that it ruins the look of the city. Well, assuming there's any beauty left to ruin in these filthy Roman alleyways," Vitruvius snorted.
"Exactly. And if public complaints mount, the Assembly or the Senate might pass a law banning public advertisements altogether."
"So you're saying you have a way to advertise without pasting flyers on the walls?"
Vitruvius sank into deep thought.
The schematics Lucius Caesar had requested were incredibly strange.
Massive wooden panels, designed to have large sheets of paper affixed to them.
What exactly was he supposed to do with giant wooden signboards?
If the goal was to promote merchant trademarks so the entire city could see them...
"Are you planning to attach these wooden panels to your kites and fly them over the city?!"
"Honestly, I didn't even think of that."
Lucius looked genuinely taken aback for a second before shaking his head.
"But that sounds incredibly dangerous. Even if we manage to get them airborne, what happens if the wind dies? A giant wooden plank falling from the sky could crush someone."
"You have a point. That would be a nightmare. Then what is your alternative?"
"Advertisements are most effective in high-traffic areas. And the higher up they are installed, the farther away they can be seen. We already possess structures that perfectly meet both criteria."
At Lucius's prompting, Vitruvius wracked his brain.
A place with massive foot traffic, where we can install heavy wooden panels high up in the air?
"Don't tell me..."
There was exactly one piece of infrastructure that fit those exact conditions.
It was the revolutionary invention Lucius had unveiled not too long ago.
The very structures that connected Ostia to Rome, and were currently being built along every major road in Italy.
Lucius simply nodded and said.
"The towers."