Caesar unboxes an iphone

 Caesar, having brought the war in Gaul to an end and settled such matters as seemed necessary for the safety of the provinces and the dignity of the Roman people, returned to the city.

He entered Rome not as one who had merely crossed lands, but as one who had crossed opinion.  For some held that he had enlarged the empire; others that he had enlarged himself.  Yet it is the custom of men to praise successes as if they had always desired them, and to fear the man who has achieved them.

When he had taken up his lodgings and received those who came to pay their respects, there was brought to him, among other petitions and gifts, a package of a kind not known to any of the household.

For it was a box of a firm substance, which neither yielded like leather nor splintered like wood, and it was fastened without cords and without seal.  Upon it were letters printed with such evenness that one would judge them to have been stamped by a die; yet no die of that kind was known, nor was there any maker’s mark.

And what seemed most remarkable, it was addressed to Caesar by name, not with the titles customary in public letters, but plainly, as one man writes to another who is already known.

Since Caesar was accustomed in all matters, whether of war or of civil business, to consider not what was marvellous but what was useful, he did not at once reject it as a trick, nor did he accept it as a wonder.  He ordered that it be brought nearer, and that those of the household stand by.

Some of his friends said that it ought to be opened immediately, lest there be poison within.  Others advised that it be carried to the priests, as a prodigy.  But Caesar, whose practice it was to draw conclusions from the nature of things rather than from the fears of men, examined the box himself.

Finding that the lid could be lifted where the edges met, he opened it.

Within was another box, smaller and more carefully made, and a note written in Latin, in a hand so regular that it seemed to have been made by an instrument rather than by a man.

It contained these words:

“Here is your new iPhone.  Since there is no network where you live I have done a basic setup for you.  Feel free to use as you like.  From a distant admirer.”

Caesar read it through without change of expression.

He remarked only, “The writer hides his name, yet does not hide his knowledge.”

For the letter assumed acquaintance with Caesar’s circumstances, and with things not ordinarily spoken of in letters: that there was a certain “network” from which the thing was ordinarily served, and that in its absence it could still be used.  This word network Caesar understood at first in its common sense, as a net-work: something woven, by which many things are held and drawn together.  Yet he judged, from the context, that it was a term of art among the writer’s people, signifying some arrangement by which messages or power were supplied.

Then he opened the second box.

There lay within a device, flat and smooth, with a face like dark glass and a body like worked metal, though no joints were visible and no rivets.  It bore no image of god or man, only a small sign on the back like an apple, bitten.

Those present were divided.  One called it a mirror.  Another said it resembled certain Greek instruments made for showing images in the theatre.  Another, more suspicious, said that a single eye was set upon it (for so the small lens appeared), and that it was therefore a contrivance for spying.

Caesar, who had employed scouts, interpreters, and informers in every part of Gaul, did not smile at this fear; yet he did not indulge it.

He turned the device over, weighed it, and sought the means by which it was operated.  Finding a single small button, he pressed it.  Nothing occurred.  He held it longer.

Then the face of it became bright with light, though no flame burned and no heat was felt.

At this, some stepped back, for Romans are bold in arms but cautious in prodigies.  Yet Caesar, who had seen men struck with panic by eclipses and then beheaded by very ordinary swords, did not allow the household to be ruled by astonishment.

Upon the illuminated face appeared a greeting in Latin, and then other greetings in foreign scripts, changing one after another.  Caesar observed this carefully.

He said, “It is made not for one nation, but for many.”

When he moved his thumb across the surface, the device responded.  It was therefore not an image fixed in place, but a thing that changed according to touch, like wax that takes a seal, yet without being marred.

Caesar proceeded as he would with a new tribe: he tested boundaries, not by force but by method.

He touched one of the small symbols arranged upon the screen.  A blank field appeared, and when he touched again, letters arose at once, as though a scribe were writing at his command.  He wrote a short line to see whether it retained what had been written, and it remained.

Then he said to those present, “If this be true, it contains writing without tablets.”

He touched another symbol, and images appeared: landscapes, a sea under clouds, mountains, a city of tall structures.  These were not painted as by an artist, for no brush-strokes were visible, and the perspective was exact beyond the skill of any common painter.  Nor were they mosaics, for they were continuous and without tesserae.  They were likenesses as if the scene itself had been captured.

One of his friends said, “It is witchcraft.”

Caesar replied, “Call nothing witchcraft merely because you do not know its cause.  Many things are done by art that once were thought divine.”

Yet he did not say this lightly, for he also understood the use of reputation.  A commander who seems favoured by the gods gains obedience more easily than one who merely seems competent.  Still, Caesar preferred instruments that could be relied upon without superstition.

He next opened the place that showed time.

It displayed hours and minutes with exactness, independent of sun and shadow.

Caesar considered that in war, time is often the decisive factor: whether a bridge is completed before the enemy arrives, whether a message reaches a legion before it is surrounded, whether a march begins at the proper watch.  A device that carried time in itself would be of use to an army.

But the note had said there was no “network.”  And Caesar had learned in Gaul that any tool that depends upon supply can be rendered useless by cutting supply.

He therefore looked for signs of dependence.

He searched for a slot for tablets of wax.  There was none.  He searched for the opening where one might pour oil.  There was none.  He searched for a place where one might insert a cord, as with certain Alexandrian devices.  There was a hole, but so small it could not take any cord known to his household, nor could it be understood how power would be transmitted through such a narrow passage.

At this, Caesar concluded that the device bore within it some stored force, like a compressed spring, though far more subtle.

Then he said, “It is not inexhaustible.  It will fail.”

And because Caesar was accustomed to measure all things by their limits, he judged that the greatest question was not what it could do now, but what it would do when its hidden power had been spent.

Some urged that it be shown to the Senate.  Others urged that it be hidden, lest his enemies accuse him of using unlawful arts.  Others urged that it be sent at once to the craftsmen of Rome, to be copied.

But Caesar understood that a thing cannot be copied merely by looking at it; it must be understood by its causes.  And he understood also that if the thing truly exceeded the arts of the age, then any attempt to spread it would do two things at once: increase desire and increase fear.

Now Caesar was a man who preferred fear in others and calm in himself.

He said, “We will not speak of this in public.”

For he judged that the common people would call it a sign, and the nobles would call it a threat, and each would use it for their own passions.  But Caesar wished to govern passions, not feed them.

He ordered that the note be kept, and the box, and the device itself; that it be handled only in his presence; and that those who had seen it speak of it to no one outside the household on pain of severe punishment.

Then, being alone with a few trusted men, he tested it again, not for amusement but for intelligence.

He opened the maps (as the icon suggested by its marking), and found that it showed a world, with land and sea, and lines for roads.  Yet without the “network,” it could not call upon what it did not already contain.  It showed only what had been stored.  Caesar understood this at once: a general needs fresh reports, not old charts.

He opened the books and found some writings already within—short instructions, lists, empty pages.  No poetry of Ennius, no laws of the Twelve Tables, no decrees of the Senate.  Therefore the sender had not meant to instruct him with Roman learning, but to give him a tool.

He opened the device’s means of making sound, and heard music—strange, like instruments played in combinations unfamiliar, yet ordered, and not unpleasant.  He noted that men are often softened by music; and that softness can be a weapon when used in councils and dinners.

Still, Caesar’s mind returned to the same calculation:

A tool that gives advantage to one man over others is most valuable not when it is shown, but when it is hidden.

And a tool that is not understood is most dangerous not because it is evil, but because it encourages men to build plans upon illusions.

Therefore he treated it as he treated a foreign ally: useful while it remained useful, watched while it remained unknown, and never trusted with the fate of Rome.

At last he took up a stylus and a wax tablet, for these were faithful.

And he wrote, as he often did, not what he felt, but what he intended:

“A device has been delivered to me, of unknown origin, capable of storing writing and images and measuring time, and of producing light without flame.  It appears to be self-contained and depends on some hidden reserve of power.  It may be employed for private use, but should not be made public, lest it become a cause of disorder.”

And when he had written this, he set the tablet aside, and looked again upon the device.

He pressed the button, and the light ceased.

And he said, to those few who remained, “In Gaul I learned that men can be conquered by swords.  In Rome I have learned that men can be conquered by stories.  Let this thing not write our story for us.”

Then he dismissed them, and the matter was kept within his house.