In the streets and stalls of Ravenna, wares of all shapes and sizes are bartered for.
Fine glass vases shine brightly, their visage a kaleidoscope of beauty in bright blues and greens. When held against the light, they shimmer like a misty morning on the lagoons surrounding Ravenna. Each one is hand-blown, the waviness a result of the breath that shaped it. The air bubbles catch the light like a diamond in a ring.
Elsewhere, men trade in the fine sauces of the day. Garum, one of the finest Roman condiments, is fermented fish aged like fine wine. Anoint your dish with this, and you shall dine like Cleopatra and Mark Antony.
If that isn't to your liking, there are more utilitarian goods for the practical customer. The Roman culter, a small, modest blade of about eight inches. You can cook, cut, carve, whittle, and kill with these blades. Dark as night, the hammer blows are still visible; they aren't pretty, but they work.
The port city of Ravenna isn't the capital of Rome just yet, but a new stall is about to shake the entire market like Mount Vesuvius.
"Hear now, hear now! By order of Emperor Gallienus, the magistrates will address and write back to any who use these new forms," announces a herald.
The market explodes in murmurs. If magistrates have to write back, that means they actually have to read your petition in the first place.
"By order of Imperator Caesar Publius Licinius Gallienus, restorer of dignity, fortunate Augustus: Each form will cost two coins. Both need only be copper." The herald finishes with his usual et cetera, et cetera.
But the market is already talking.
The magistrate has never done anything about the pothole near Pulcher's thermopolium; every time I walk by to get a bowl, I trip.
My cousin got stabbed by a discarded caltrop; he hasn't found any recompense.
I can't write. How do I use these forms?
What do these forms look like, and what's so special about them?
Why do we need to pay for public services?
The Romans all look at the newest stall. A man flanked by two guards sits behind three boxes. The first is a chest, heavy with iron casing, featuring a small hole on top for payments. The second is a taller box to slip papers into; its opening is wide and thin. This is where citizens will deposit their petitions. The final box is wide and full of blank paper forms.
A woman picks one up. The format is strange—more utilitarian than even a military report.
Name: Residence: Request [monetary/infrastructure/law/crime]
Below that, there is space for only 120 words of context.
"What in the world? No well-wishes, no begging—why would a magistrate listen to this?" exclaims the woman.
"Because you pay two coppers for the expedient service, and that copper goes to government functions," answers the stall manager.
Already, the forms are flying from the stall. The people have plenty of grievances to air, and the promise of actually getting a petition read is huge.
Meanwhile, in the local curia, an accountant reviews the cost-revenue analysis.
"By the authority of your sacrosanct office, I have tallied the total profits from this new imperial form initiative," intones the accountant.
"Well, get on with it; I have 1,036 forms to look through," the magistrate sighs.
"Don't worry, sir. After a thorough tally, we have made approximately 113 denarii," replies the accountant.
"One hundred and thirteen denarii? That's one man's wages for a day! I make that in a second," snaps the magistrate.
He isn't wrong, though; 113 denarii is about a day's wage for manual labor in this day and age. It is less than a drop in the bucket when compared to the day-to-day expenses of running a city.
"So, would you like to get rid of the forms?" remarks an aide.
"Wait, wait, wait, now let's not get too hasty." The magistrate realizes he would rather have 113 denarii than not. It is a daily influx of cash, and pure profit. If I keep doing this, in the first month, I'll get around 3,000 denarii. That is 36,000 a year.
"So, are you going to read the petitions?" asks a scribe.
"You know exactly who's going to get these petitions. I just sign them after the fact. Hey, Yosef! I got another pile for you!" yells the magistrate.
In walks a dreary man wearing a simple wool tunic. The bags under his eyes are visible a Roman mile away—the exact distance a legion could march to kill you in under ten minutes. Here, it simply means you can read his sullen exhaustion from a thousand paces.
The magistrate, on the other hand, looks jovial and relaxed, like he hasn't done a single bit of work all day. Which is entirely true. The man's usual work is delegated to accountants and scribes; he just says what has to be done. Now, he has a new employee to deal with the forms of the new Roman bureaucracy: a curator.
"Sir, I have approved these for acceptance. This pile will not be accepted; rejection letters explaining why are already on their way," answers the dreary scribe.
This scribe isn't official. He isn't sanctioned, nor is he free. Gallienus intended for the magistrates to become bureaucrats themselves; the pay incentivized all the Roman cities to accept the initial, low-level complaint forms.
What Gallienus didn't foresee was laziness, or simply a lack of skill in bureaucracy. Humans adapted. The magistrate of Ravenna chose a slave to handle the work. Magistrates elsewhere chose paid men, or other slaves.
Across Italy, the civilian government has taken to this first bureaucratic reform like bears to honey, greedily eating up the profits while the environmental benefits are mostly a side effect.
It is the tail end of the year 263, but already, the forms have done more to assure the authority of Gallienus than any victory in the field. The people, for once, feel heard, and the governors and magistrates of Italia get a new revenue stream.
Greed and self-interest are the greatest motivators of internal reform. Rome may not have steam or gunpowder. It may not have some deus ex machina or a genius general to save the day. What it does have is coherent civil administration and a functioning bureaucracy. That is what saves empires: boring paperwork.