There are rulers who issue decrees.
Then there is Trumpius Caesar Imperator Maximus, who apparently believes that if an imperial proclamation doesn't require its own transportation convoy, it simply isn't important enough.
The Golden Senate was packed from marble floor to golden ceiling as Mercatorius Tarifus Maximus, Supreme Keeper of Commerce and Collector of Magnificent Percentages, entered carrying a parchment so enormous that four assistants, two palace guards, and one confused mule were reportedly needed just to keep it from rolling back up.
Trumpius Caesar rose dramatically.
"My fellow senators," he declared, "today we discuss not one kingdom... not ten... but sixty kingdoms. Some people negotiate. I prefer spectacular lists."
Thunderous applause erupted.
Mainly because nobody wanted to admit they had already lost count after kingdom number twenty-three.
The Imperial Trade Council had spent months examining sixty trading realms across the globe to determine whether they were doing enough to keep goods connected to forced labor out of international commerce.
Naturally, the findings arrived in the form of what historians immediately classified as The Scroll That Ate Three Libraries.
After much deliberation, consultations, hearings, testimony, reports, appendices, annexes, supplemental annexes, and annexes explaining previous annexes, the Empire reached its conclusion.
Some kingdoms would receive an Imperial Ten Percent Tariff.
Others would earn the far more majestic Imperial Twelve-and-a-Half Percent Tariff.
A young senator cautiously raised his hand.
"Great Caesar... why twelve and a half?"
The Emperor smiled with supreme confidence.
"Because twelve sounded ordinary, and thirteen sounded rude."
The Senate instantly recorded this as advanced economic philosophy.
No further questions were entertained.
Soon the logistics became wonderfully complicated.
Kingdoms that had begun enforcing restrictions against goods connected to forced labor—or at least promised they eventually would—qualified for the friendlier ten percent rate.
Everyone else was invited to enjoy the deluxe twelve-and-a-half-percent experience.
The palace mathematicians immediately celebrated.
After years of calculating taxes that actually made sense, they finally had percentages complicated enough to justify their existence.
But Trumpius Caesar was just getting started.
"No great decree," he announced, "is complete without exceptions."
The palace scribes collectively sighed.
Entire wagonloads of fresh parchment were delivered before the next sentence began.
Raw materials needed by the Empire?
Exempt.
Products capable of disrupting the entire economy?
Exempt.
Items impossible to manufacture domestically?
Exempt.
Goods whose tariffs would accomplish absolutely nothing?
Also exempt.
One exhausted clerk whispered to another.
"I think the exceptions are becoming larger than the actual rule."
His colleague nodded knowingly.
"Congratulations. You've discovered government."
The Senate applauded once more.
Nobody was entirely sure why.
It simply felt appropriate.
Then came the textile chapter.
Trumpius Caesar unveiled what he proudly described as The Glorious Cotton Initiative.
Certain textile-producing kingdoms would eventually receive special import quotas allowing specified quantities of clothing to enter tariff-free—provided they increasingly relied on glorious Imperial cotton rather than less trustworthy foreign materials.
Economists erupted into celebration.
Charts appeared.
Graphs multiplied.
Several flow diagrams began reproducing spontaneously.
No senator understood any of them.
Everyone agreed they looked extremely professional.
Meanwhile, Paragraphius Interpretatius, Guardian of Every Footnote Ever Written, proudly announced that more than 1,600 public comments and over one hundred witnesses had been carefully considered.
Trumpius Caesar nodded thoughtfully.
"Excellent," he said.
"Everyone had a chance to speak before we magnificently confirmed what we had already magnificently decided."
The Senate called this transparency.
The palace historians called it efficiency.
The palace comedians quietly called it Tuesday.
Special treatment was reserved for several close trading partners.
Instead of simply stacking tariffs forever, the Empire introduced a majestic mathematical balancing act.
Certain tariffs would only rise high enough to reach carefully calculated maximum levels.
When Calculatus Decimalius, Imperial Master of Percentages, finally confirmed the arithmetic worked, the Emperor smiled.
"If the math agrees with me," Trumpius proclaimed, "history eventually will."
By sunset, exhausted couriers prepared to spread the imperial decree throughout the civilized world.
One wagon carried the tariff schedules.
Another transported the exemption lists.
A third hauled the annexes.
A fourth carried explanations of the annexes.
Behind them came an entire caravan devoted exclusively to future amendments that everyone secretly knew would be necessary within weeks.
Before dismissing the Senate, Trumpius Caesar stood one final time.
"Today," he proclaimed proudly, "we have proven that any challenge can be solved with sufficient determination, enough percentages, several hundred exemptions, and an absolutely magnificent amount of paperwork."
The senators erupted into applause.
The scribes quietly ordered more ink.
They already suspected tomorrow's decree would require an even longer scroll.
