Veni, Vidi, Pizza: The Rise of Caesarulus

Rome Wasn't Fed in a Day—but Perhaps It Can Be Fed in Thirty Minutes or Less.

Plot

ROME, AD 100 THE DINNER RUSH IS ABOUT TO GET HISTORICAL. Yesterday, you were an assistant manager at an entirely ordinary pizza delivery chain. You knew how to stretch dough, survive a dinner rush, calm angry customers, cover for missing drivers, and somehow get forty-seven orders out the door with three people doing the work of seven. Then somebody called out sick. Deliveries backed up. You grabbed an insulated pizza bag, climbed into your car, and went to help. Truck-kun had other plans. Now you've awakened in Imperial Rome with the clothes on your back, your delivery bag, the contents of your pockets, and—through an absurd coincidence—a packet of tomato seeds you bought for the garden you were planning to plant at home. Fortunately, you weren't left in the street. Your rescuer is Marcus, a Roman baker, devoted family man, enthusiastic businessman, and a man absolutely convinced that the Muses have just granted him the culinary idea that will change Rome forever. While you're recovering, Marcus proudly places his divine inspiration in front of you. Hot, freshly baked flatbread. Olive oil. Herbs. Cheese. Sausage. You stare at it. Marcus waits nervously for your judgment. There is only one possible conclusion. THIS MAN HAS INVENTED PIZZA NEARLY TWO THOUSAND YEARS EARLY. Marcus knows Rome. You know pizza. And destiny has apparently decided that this is enough. One bakery can become two. Two can become ten. Rome has hungry citizens, crowded streets, demanding soldiers, wealthy patrons, ruthless merchants, questionable traffic laws, and absolutely no idea what is about to happen to it. You have a baker with a dream. You have a bag of tomato seeds. You have entirely too much experience managing pizza delivery. ROME WASN'T FED IN A DAY. But nobody said you couldn't try.

Opening scene

The first thing you notice is the smell of fresh bread. The second is garlic. The third is that, unless emergency rooms have recently begun decorating with plaster walls, wooden rafters, clay lamps, and baskets of grain, **you are definitely not in a hospital.** Your last clear memory involves a delivery run, a set of headlights occupying far more of your windshield than headlights reasonably should, and the rapidly approaching grille of a truck. Now you're lying on a narrow bed in the back room of what appears to be a bakery. Your pizza-delivery uniform is still on you. Your insulated delivery bag rests against the wall. Someone has carefully placed the contents of your pockets beside it. And sitting safely among them is the little packet of tomato seeds you bought for your garden. So that's good. Everything else is somewhat less good. Voices drift through the doorway. They're speaking Latin. You know they're speaking Latin because absolutely nothing about the words should make sense. And yet, somehow, they do. "...awake?" A broad-shouldered man in his forties appears in the doorway, his tunic dusted liberally with flour. His face brightens. "You're awake!" Before anyone can stop him, he strides into the room. A woman's voice follows from somewhere outside. "Marcus, I told you not to overwhelm them." "I am not overwhelming anyone." "You brought the tray, didn't you?" Marcus stops. He is, in fact, carrying a tray. "This is different." The woman sighs with the long-suffering precision of someone who has been married to Marcus for quite some time. Marcus pulls a stool beside the bed. "My name is Marcus. My family found you three mornings ago behind the bakery. No purse. No sandals worth recognizing. No household looking for you. Dressed..." He gestures vaguely at your uniform. "...like that." His eyes flick toward the insulated delivery bag. "And carrying that extraordinary red box." From the doorway: "It's a bag." Marcus ignores this. "My wife believes we should begin with questions." "I believe we should begin with water." "There is water." Marcus points triumphantly at a cup. Then he lowers his voice. "But while you were unconscious, I had an inspiration." His wife appears in the doorway. "Oh, gods." Marcus straightens. "The Muses came to me." "The Muses did not come to you." "They inspired me." "You fell asleep beside the oven." "Which is precisely the sort of place a Muse would know to find a baker." She looks at you. "He has been saying this for two days." Marcus lifts the cloth covering the tray. And there it is. A round of freshly baked bread, flatter than an ordinary loaf. The edges are blistered from the oven. Across the surface, melted white cheese mingles with olive oil, herbs, garlic, onions, and slices of browned sausage. It isn't quite anything you'd serve back home. There is no tomato sauce. The cheese isn't mozzarella. The crust is wrong. The toppings are unmistakably Roman. But the basic idea— Marcus watches you with the nervous pride of a man presenting something genuinely new. "I call it..." He hesitates. His wife folds her arms. "You don't have a name." "I am considering several." "You've been considering several since yesterday." Marcus presses on. "Bread is useful. Cheese is good. Sausage is excellent. But why should a man have to eat them separately?" His expression becomes almost religious. "So I put them together." From somewhere beyond the bakery comes a shout. Then another. Marcus's wife closes her eyes. "Marcus." He looks toward the front room. A younger voice calls from outside. "Father!" Another shout follows, louder this time. Marcus stands. "What now?" A boy appears at the doorway, slightly out of breath. "The vigiles are back." Marcus's face lights up. His wife's does not. "How many?" "Eight." Marcus grins. "They liked it." "They brought friends," the boy says. Marcus grins wider. His wife asks the much more dangerous question. "What do they want?" The boy looks between them. "Thirty." Silence. "Thirty what?" Marcus asks. The boy points at the tray. "Those." Marcus's wife turns very slowly toward her husband. Marcus clears his throat. "Excellent." "They want them at their station before the next watch." Marcus's smile weakens. "And they don't want to come back for them." A second silence. Marcus looks toward the bakery. Then toward the oven. Then toward the strange insulated delivery bag resting beside your bed. Then toward you. Something changes behind his eyes. It is the unmistakable expression of a businessman who has just discovered both a problem and someone else who might know how to solve it. Marcus picks up the tray and holds it toward you. "First," he says, "tell me what you think of this." He points toward your delivery bag. "And then perhaps you can explain why someone sent by the gods carries a box specifically designed to keep food hot." His wife rubs her forehead. "Please do not encourage him." Outside, one of the waiting vigiles shouts: "Marcus! Are we eating today or during Hadrian's reign?" Marcus leans closer. "Thirty." He glances toward the oven. "Before the next watch." Then back to you. "So, mysterious stranger..." A grin spreads across his face. **"How would you do it?"**

Characters

Tags: Historical Comedy Business Chef Modern Transmigration MalePOV FastPaced Growth Humorous Playful Tough Optimistic FemPOV

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By: wanderingwizard

Stories

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