Status (2)
“Real estate benefits aren't honestly the best approach.”
My personal take. I knew how California had changed entirely when skyrocketing housing prices drove people into the streets, so I had to tread carefully with real estate policies. Even so, the reason I pushed forward was simple: nothing mixed diverse social classes as effectively as property.
In the Eastern Roman Empire with its rigid class system, neighborhoods were strictly divided by status. Rich districts, middle-class areas, and slums for the lower classes. It was like the modern world, but the invisible walls of class were even more starkly defined. The most effective way to break them down was to force people to live intermingled.
To achieve that, mobility between classes had to be fluid.
“Living side by side would breed understanding.”
Such a move would be intolerable in the modern era, where residential freedom was a given. But this was the Middle Ages, and imperial authority held far greater sway. We could crush freedoms like that without much fuss.
Of course, enforcing it directly would spark backlash. That's why we needed a carrot: the lottery system. By framing it as random selection—like a lottery redistributing wealth—we could minimize resistance.
“The word 'random' carries its own credibility.”
Probability and chance lent it strong legitimacy. Of course, repeating it too often could erode trust and invite rigging accusations, so caution was key.
But that wasn't the point. Blurring residential boundaries through lotteries would inevitably soften class lines.
“And once it's settled in...”
Time for the next phase. I opened a drawer in my office desk and pulled out a sheet of paper.
“We'll roll out the lottery proper.”
We'd introduced lotteries for Constantinople's reconstruction. The logical follow-up was full-fledged lotteries.
“When massive cash floods the market, someone will always hoard it.”
People who knew the money would eventually get reabsorbed had existed since ancient times to the modern day. They tied up liquidity, waiting for scarcity to drive up value.
The simplest way to shake it loose was raw power—crush them and force it out. But that bred fierce resentment and collateral damage.
So we needed alternatives.
“That's where lotteries come in.”
One was redistributing wealth via the randomness of lotteries.
“The best method, proven by prospect theory.”
I'd learned about prospect theory in an introductory economics lecture at the U.S. Military Academy, courtesy of Nobel laureate Daniel Kahneman. It shattered the old assumption that utility came solely from income and gains.
Evolving into prospect theory, it boiled down to people being more sensitive to losses than gains. In gain domains, they chose safe options; in loss domains, risky ones.
By that logic, lotteries were a risky bet: small loss for potential big win. But the low cost meant minimal downside even if you lost.
Rationally, you shouldn't buy them. Enter the possibility effect.
“It assigns heavy weight to low-probability events, fueling the delusion that you might win.”
People cling to even 1% odds. A winner emerges—especially if it's someone close—and it becomes conviction. That's why modern folks buy tickets despite the odds.
“It's gambling, sure, but better than money flowing into the shadows.”
Put cash in pockets, and people itch to spend. Gambling exploits that itch perfectly. Eradicating it entirely? Impossible. Gladiatorial bets in ancient Rome proved gambling and humanity were inseparable.
Better to legitimize and control it. Lotteries were one tool.
“Once lotteries take root...”
Dozens of ideas swirled in my head. I was dying to discuss them with Zoi right then.
* * *
Dong-dong-dong.
The great bells tolled loudly, drawing expectant crowds to the central square.
“The announcement day's finally here.”
“I just want to live in a nice house for once.”
“Please, let me win.”
At the forefront stood none other than Theodora. She'd taken the podium to reveal the housing lottery winners.
“Beloved subjects of the Eastern Roman Empire, I am Theodora of the Uranos-Makedon imperial house.”
Her self-introduction ensured fairness in the draw.
“This drawing is entirely random. If a lot is blank, erased, or unreadable, it will be voided—consider this notice in advance.”
They'd heard this during the reconstruction housing project, so the crowd nodded knowingly.
With the mood set, Theodora clapped, and attendants brought a perfectly sealed jar. It was sealed so tightly that opening it undetected was impossible—multiple layers of tamper-proofing.
“As you all see, this jar is fully sealed against any tampering. It was prepared under the supervision of Emperor Rogerius and Empress Zoi. I swear by God Himself that no foul play occurred.”
The people nodded. Every step transparent, denial was futile. The emperors had sealed it personally, vouched for by imperial kin Theodora—what could anyone say?
Thus, before all eyes, Theodora sliced open the jar with a knife, tearing just enough to reach in and draw a lot.
She shouted in a booming voice.
“Serepios! Serepios! Serepios! Are you here?”
From the back, a man yelled and pushed forward.
“That's me! Right here!”
A young dockworker from the harbor stepped up. His merchant coworker eyed him enviously.
Bathed in the crowd's jealousy, Serepios ascended the podium. The guards demanded his lottery stub.
It was crumpled but matched perfectly—serial number and imperial seal confirming authenticity.
“Congratulations, Serepios.”
“Thank you! Thank you!”
Theodora's blessing. Serepios bowed deeply in genuine gratitude before descending.
“Today's drawings are complete. The next will be next Sabbath. May the goddess of fortune smile on you all until then.”
Escorted by guards, Theodora returned to the palace. As she left, an official approached Serepios.
“The balance is due in three weeks. Fail to pay, and your win is forfeit.”
“Th-three weeks? That's tight...”
Serepios was in a bind. He'd saved from reconstruction work, but not enough. Wages barely covered living expenses.
“Why not take a loan?”
“A l-loan?”
As a day-laboring dockworker, Serepios had never borrowed.
“Yes. Use the house as collateral, pay the balance, then repay over time.”
“Ah...!”
A house with clear value—in a former noble district, no less. Prices were high, making loans easy. Lenders would jump at it; worst case, they seize the property cheap.
“Know anyone who lends?”
“You a mercenary? The guild offers loans to members.”
Rogerius's mercenary guild—more cooperative than anything—provided loans based on credit. Higher ranks got more.
“No, not in the guild.”
“Merchant then? Their guild lends too.”
“Nope...”
“Hmm, tricky.”
The two paced awkwardly. A middle-aged man who'd worked with Serepios overheard.
“Got the house but no loan options...”
A former merchant himself, he smelled profit instantly.
“Lend against the house, collect interest—big money.”
An ancient Roman structure: partners pooled capital for loans, taking cuts. They were called coāctor. The Eastern Roman merchant guild's loan officers, praktor (πράκτωρ), derived from it.
The middle-aged merchant, scenting opportunity, began plotting a specialist lending firm for housing purchases.