In the dusky vestiges of Rome—where marble columns were accessorized with vine leaves like an overdressed dowager at an orgy—lived Augustus Quincunx. Augustus was a gentleman of considerable girth and even more considerable wealth, the latter amassed by the unlikely export of Roman snails to Egypt for use as chariot wheel lubricants. The Egyptians, you see, were terribly misinformed about the locomotion of snails but awfully convinced of their mystical potencies. Ah, the unparalleled buffoonery of international trade!
In stark contrast was young Terentia—a free-spirited poetess whose verses were as ethereal as Augustus was corporeal. She believed in the romantic notion that her destiny was written in the stars, blissfully ignorant that the stars couldn’t even spell "cat" if you spotted them the "c" and the "t."
Terentia's best friend was the soothsayer Marcipor, a man who often spoke in riddles, usually to himself. An unfortunate accident with a batch of noxious herbs at a young age had rendered him virtually incomprehensible, although paradoxically more marketable. "Ah, to predict is to peddle in the perishable!" he'd murmur, throwing chicken bones and casting spells that sounded suspiciously like last week's grocery list.
Into this cauldron of personalities, a problem was plopped, steaming and redolent of existential crisis. Marcipor had prophesized that the River Tiber would turn into a torrent of wine unless someone (preferably someone else) committed an Act of Unmitigated Altruism. Now, altruism in Rome was about as common as a sober Bacchanalian, and therefore considered a highly suspicious activity.
Augustus, believing that altruism was a new form of backrub, offered to finance this endeavor. “If this River Tiber becomes a river of wine, imagine the inflation on my snail-based fortunes! Why, Cleopatra herself would haunt me for an eternity!” Marcipor insisted that Augustus give away his most prized possession, a luxuriant toga made from the shimmering silk of mystical silkworms fed exclusively on organic mulberry leaves serenaded by lyre music.
Terentia, embodying the spirit of impractical idealism, convinced Augustus that this was destiny’s call, a higher purpose, not merely a preposterous task to keep Marcipor from having to get a real job. “Think of the epic we shall pen! It’ll make Homer look like a kitchen scullion!” she proclaimed.
Thus, they hatched a plan as zany as a minotaur in a china shop. They'd donate Augustus’ silken toga to the perpetually freezing, ice realm of Hyperborea—a land where the concept of 'fashion' was as foreign as a tanning salon. Terentia would pen an epic poem about the journey, and Marcipor would offer discount prophecies along the way.
After a journey filled with whimsical detours, including a rap battle with Sirens and an unfortunate incident with a Cyclops sommelier ("One eye, zero taste," quipped Terentia), they reached Hyperborea. The gift was made, and the Hyperboreans were so touched they melted, quite literally, forming a lovely reflecting pool.
When they returned, lo and behold, the Tiber was still as waterlogged as ever, bereft of even a hint of Merlot. But something had changed. Augustus felt lighter (though not in girth), Terentia penned her masterpiece titled “The Wine That Never Was,” and Marcipor... well, Marcipor continued to be as decipherable as advanced calculus to a toddler.
And so, our protagonists realized that the pursuit of absurdities wasn't a waste, but a veritable treasure trove of the human experience. The River Tiber may not have turned into wine, but their lives had ripened like a grape under an Italian sun—improving not with reason, but with season.
In the end, as a toast to their escapade, Terentia composed a final line for her epic:
"When in Rome, do as the Hyperboreans do—melt into a better version of you."
