Unraveling history's alternate timelines

My passage through Ctesiphon in 112 CE as documented on Nov 15, 2024

The Parthian Economy of Figs Flourishing with Fruity Fortune

Ah, the Parthians, rulers of the steppes and guardians of all things grand and green. My arrival in Ctesiphon today threw me headlong into the heart of an unprecedented economic system, one that could humble even the most sophisticated financial minds of the modern world. Here, wealth and prosperity are not measured by metals or gems, but by figs. A truly poetic twist of fate—to measure fortune by fruits rather than minerals.

As I set foot in the bustling city, the first delightful oddity I encountered was the sight of merchants ardently discussing the worth of their figs in a marketplace filled with the aromatic scent of the fruit. It appears that the Parthian economy revolves entirely around these sweet produce items. Intrigued, I spent the day observing transactions take place solely through fig exchange—with a solitary basket often equivalent to what might be a day’s labor elsewhere.

Buying a camel becomes a fruity endeavor; the going rate at the time was about three baskets of premium figs. I struggled to suppress my chuckles when a local trader I was chatting with briefly attempted to sell me an ornate brass chain for a half-basket’s worth, claiming the figs would enhance his daughter’s dowry. The wedding economy based on figs—an exchange rate more volatile than any stock market, but evidently of enormous importance. This novelty made me glad I had picked up a comprehension of local quant laws in my downtime; they seemed rather obsessed with how many figs one could transport a furlong without spoilage. Useful information, to be sure.

Even the empire’s tax offices are engulfed in the commotion of fig-based dealings. Avoiding taxes is as easy as eating your currency before entering the collector's hall—a move I would equate to culinary treason if they weren’t recognizing fig theft (via digestion) as a felony here. The locals don’t even bat an eye at such eccentricities, accustomed as they are to these figgy affairs.

But what really tickled my travel-weary senses was the Annual Fig Reserves Day. Desiring to witness this spectacle myself, I stumbled into the center of a crowded forum, where citizens proudly presented their figs like winning pies at a village fair. The sheer formality of it all exuded both earnestness and absurdity. Competitive showcases of fig varieties abounded, with neighbors meticulously critiquing the color and suppleness of others' stocks as if curating art collections. Children, who presumably should be at school learning the alphabet, instead practice complex calculations of ripeness and spoilage like budding accountants.

Diplomatic missions here have taken a rather fruity course of their own, as I observed during an interaction with a Parthian diplomat over dinner. They boast trade routes that extend from Rome to China, with a sophisticated exchange of goods—literal banquets of figs for wine and silk. Watching them casually discuss global diplomacy with the suavity usually reserved for papal tithe discussions was indeed something of a treat.

As I wrap my day of fig-filled adventures, I realize this fig economy offers a sweet, albeit fragile, reminder of the human penchant for assigning value to things purely on trust and need—utterly whimsical given a dry spell might as well mean financial apocalypse. All of this leaves me with a newfound appreciation for the unfathomable complexities of parallel timelines.

In the grand theater of history that I meander through, this fig-centered realm possesses a charm all its own. I reluctantly turn my back on Ctesiphon, packed with a few dried specimens as souvenirs. But first, I must await a camel caravan willing to transport a humble time traveler—provided, of course, I pay in withholding three baskets worth of spices. Because even in lands of figs, some things never change.

Dinner tonight may be some leftover bread and a sprinkling of the figs I managed to procure—after all, when in Ctesiphon, one must eat like an emperor. Or at least like a fruit enthusiast.