Yep, that would be me alright ... not the kind to meekly face that wall and turn my back to my executioners. I’d go for a deal ... any deal ... and if that didn’t work I’d complain loudly!
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Vignettes from Barb’s ancestral past
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Yep, that would be me alright ... not the kind to meekly face that wall and turn my back to my executioners. I’d go for a deal ... any deal ... and if that didn’t work I’d complain loudly!
Baron Von Sade
Governor
That looks like a truly glorious celebration of the finest decadence! And I'm sure one of Barb's ancestors was displayed there.
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
On a cross facing Nero, complaining all the time!
Baron Von Sade
Governor
Normies when they timetravel: "OMG I'm going to meet my grandparents! Maybe we can kill Hitler"On a cross facing Nero, complaining all the time!
Cruxforum members when they timetravel "OMG I'm going to watch hundreds of naked women be crucified in the Circus Maximus!"
3. Nero fiddles?
The six day fire that ravaged Rome in July of 64 CE has popularly been blamed on Nero, the decadent, cruel and sadistic Roman emperor who is said to have fiddled while Rome burned.
Nero was an unpopular emperor who was widely despised and mistrusted. Some even believed he ordered the fire started, especially after land cleared by the fire was used to build his extravagant Golden Palace and surrounding pleasure gardens. And, because he moved swiftly to blame those responsible, imagined or not, and order them crucified.
We know now, though, that Nero likely did not fiddle as the city burned. Fiddles didn’t exist in ancient Rome. They were, in fact, not developed until sometime in the 11th century. Romans did play a heavy wooden instrument with four to seven strings, known as a cithara, but there is no credible evidence that Nero played one during the fire. I’m fact, he wasn’t even there on that fateful night.
So, what really happened?
Well, as it turns out, one of my ancestors, a young Roman woman of patrician birth, known as Baebiana Moorella, happened to have played a starring role. This little known fact, long buried in an ancient first century document, held deep in the Vatican Apostolic Archive, was recently revealed to me in the course of my research into my ancestral past (how I was allowed in to see it, is another story).
Baebiana, you see, was deeply involved at the time with two men ... two writers, in fact ... patricians like herself, who spent their time ... when they weren’t otherwise engaged in writing kinky underground stories about Baebiana’s remarkably delectable patrician tight little ... actively plotting against Nero. Although, for the most part their activities amounted to little more than painting inflammatory denunciations of him on walls around the city in the dark of night
The first of these characters was Markus Windarius, a Gallic transplant from Lugudunum, best known in Roman literary circles for his (not very) comical stories surrounding a fictional character known as Seinfeldius. The second , who hailed from the barbarian wilds far beyond the Empire’s Rhine frontier, but who had risen quickly in the city’s literary world, was known simply as Loxoru. Both thought the emperor, Nero, a dullard and complete bore, and dreamed of seeing him replaced with a witty urbane type like themselves ... or even themselves.
So, late one evening, as they shared a couch and good wine in the triclinium of the sumptuous villa owned by their good friend and wealthy patron, Phlebas Australius, they gazed contentedly at a half-naked Baebiana, who was bent over a low squarish table. Her raised and reddened tight little gave evidence to the fact she had just been subjected to a brisk caning ... punishment for spilling the wine, as she was a bit clumsy, and for refusing to swallow, as so often was her wont.
Stretching and yawning, Markus Windarius withdrew a tablet from behind the couch and announced that earlier that day he had prepared a cleverly written mockery of Nero that simply demanded to adorn the walls of the city that very night. Indeed it needed to be seen not only throughout the city, but on the very door of the imperial residence itself.
“But who will do that?” wondered Loxoru. “That place is heavily guarded, as you know!”
“I think I have the answer,” beamed Phlebas. “I know of the man who heads the Praetorian Guard at the main gate, Hangus Treeius. He’s said to drink heavily on duty, and by this time of the night I’d wager that our flirtatious Baebiana could easily charm her way right past him.”
“Agreed,” chorused Loxoru and Markus Windarius, slapping each other heartily on the back.
“What?” cried Baebiana. “Exactly what kind of charm are we talking about here?”
“Don’t worry. You won’t have to swallow,” grinned Phlebas, helping her to her feet. “Now, everyone just memorize what Markus Windarius has written on his tablet and we’ll be off to do battle!”
Minutes later they all sallied merrily forth into the night, each armed with Windarius’ witty words, a wooden bucket of tar, and a brush.
Once on her own, Baebiana headed straight for the imperial residence. Warily she approached the main entrance, which appeared to be heavily guarded.
“I’d like a word with Hangus Treeius,” she said when confronted by a guard, who looked her up and down with a leer and pointed to a tall man who leaned nonchalantly against the wall of what appeared to be a stable.
Walking boldly up to him, she whispered conspiratorially, “Phlebas Australius sent me.”
“About time,” he replied, alcohol heavy on his breath.
“I just need a little time inside,” she said with a wink.
“You came to the right place. Step right inside and get naked over there on the straw.”
“But I meant ...”
“What’s the matter. The horses don’t care what we do in there. Get yourself naked and I’ll show you what I’ve got to fill you up inside .. for a little time or as long as you like,” he chuckled as he took a burning torch from above the doorway, grabbed her by the arm and led her inside.
“Really, you don’t ... “ she began, but stopped short with a gasp as he ripped her tunic from her body and flung her down in the hay. The bucket of tar flew from her grasp, spilling its contents.
Standing over her, he held his torch high to illuminate the soft curves of her body just as she kicked him hard between the legs. The torch flew from his hand, landing in the straw precisely where the contents of her bucket of tar had spilled.
“Futuo!” she screamed, gaining her feet and fleeing from the stable straight into the arms of a swarm of Praetorian guards who had rushed to the scene but were already staggering back, shielding their faces from the intense heat of a blazing inferno racing to adjoining buildings under a brisk breeze
Well, the rest is history.
Nero, who had been at his country villa that night, returned in haste to a Rome engulfed in flames. Demanding the cause of the conflagration, he was presented with poor Baebiana Moorella.
He took one look at the nude beauty, held between two guards, and then at Hangus Treeius, who had turned up just at that moment and seemed to be, rather oddly, struggling to stand up straight.
Nero threw up his arms and shouted “crucify her!”
“Gladly!” replied Hangus Treeius.
Later that night, as he observed the freshly crucified Boebiania, writhing and twisting nakedly on her cross, backlit by a burning city, Loxoru remarked to his good friend, Markus Windarius, “This would make a great story. Be sure to record it for posterity.”
The six day fire that ravaged Rome in July of 64 CE has popularly been blamed on Nero, the decadent, cruel and sadistic Roman emperor who is said to have fiddled while Rome burned.
Nero was an unpopular emperor who was widely despised and mistrusted. Some even believed he ordered the fire started, especially after land cleared by the fire was used to build his extravagant Golden Palace and surrounding pleasure gardens. And, because he moved swiftly to blame those responsible, imagined or not, and order them crucified.
We know now, though, that Nero likely did not fiddle as the city burned. Fiddles didn’t exist in ancient Rome. They were, in fact, not developed until sometime in the 11th century. Romans did play a heavy wooden instrument with four to seven strings, known as a cithara, but there is no credible evidence that Nero played one during the fire. I’m fact, he wasn’t even there on that fateful night.
So, what really happened?
Well, as it turns out, one of my ancestors, a young Roman woman of patrician birth, known as Baebiana Moorella, happened to have played a starring role. This little known fact, long buried in an ancient first century document, held deep in the Vatican Apostolic Archive, was recently revealed to me in the course of my research into my ancestral past (how I was allowed in to see it, is another story).
Baebiana, you see, was deeply involved at the time with two men ... two writers, in fact ... patricians like herself, who spent their time ... when they weren’t otherwise engaged in writing kinky underground stories about Baebiana’s remarkably delectable patrician tight little ... actively plotting against Nero. Although, for the most part their activities amounted to little more than painting inflammatory denunciations of him on walls around the city in the dark of night
The first of these characters was Markus Windarius, a Gallic transplant from Lugudunum, best known in Roman literary circles for his (not very) comical stories surrounding a fictional character known as Seinfeldius. The second , who hailed from the barbarian wilds far beyond the Empire’s Rhine frontier, but who had risen quickly in the city’s literary world, was known simply as Loxoru. Both thought the emperor, Nero, a dullard and complete bore, and dreamed of seeing him replaced with a witty urbane type like themselves ... or even themselves.
So, late one evening, as they shared a couch and good wine in the triclinium of the sumptuous villa owned by their good friend and wealthy patron, Phlebas Australius, they gazed contentedly at a half-naked Baebiana, who was bent over a low squarish table. Her raised and reddened tight little gave evidence to the fact she had just been subjected to a brisk caning ... punishment for spilling the wine, as she was a bit clumsy, and for refusing to swallow, as so often was her wont.
Stretching and yawning, Markus Windarius withdrew a tablet from behind the couch and announced that earlier that day he had prepared a cleverly written mockery of Nero that simply demanded to adorn the walls of the city that very night. Indeed it needed to be seen not only throughout the city, but on the very door of the imperial residence itself.
“But who will do that?” wondered Loxoru. “That place is heavily guarded, as you know!”
“I think I have the answer,” beamed Phlebas. “I know of the man who heads the Praetorian Guard at the main gate, Hangus Treeius. He’s said to drink heavily on duty, and by this time of the night I’d wager that our flirtatious Baebiana could easily charm her way right past him.”
“Agreed,” chorused Loxoru and Markus Windarius, slapping each other heartily on the back.
“What?” cried Baebiana. “Exactly what kind of charm are we talking about here?”
“Don’t worry. You won’t have to swallow,” grinned Phlebas, helping her to her feet. “Now, everyone just memorize what Markus Windarius has written on his tablet and we’ll be off to do battle!”
Minutes later they all sallied merrily forth into the night, each armed with Windarius’ witty words, a wooden bucket of tar, and a brush.
Once on her own, Baebiana headed straight for the imperial residence. Warily she approached the main entrance, which appeared to be heavily guarded.
“I’d like a word with Hangus Treeius,” she said when confronted by a guard, who looked her up and down with a leer and pointed to a tall man who leaned nonchalantly against the wall of what appeared to be a stable.
Walking boldly up to him, she whispered conspiratorially, “Phlebas Australius sent me.”
“About time,” he replied, alcohol heavy on his breath.
“I just need a little time inside,” she said with a wink.
“You came to the right place. Step right inside and get naked over there on the straw.”
“But I meant ...”
“What’s the matter. The horses don’t care what we do in there. Get yourself naked and I’ll show you what I’ve got to fill you up inside .. for a little time or as long as you like,” he chuckled as he took a burning torch from above the doorway, grabbed her by the arm and led her inside.
“Really, you don’t ... “ she began, but stopped short with a gasp as he ripped her tunic from her body and flung her down in the hay. The bucket of tar flew from her grasp, spilling its contents.
Standing over her, he held his torch high to illuminate the soft curves of her body just as she kicked him hard between the legs. The torch flew from his hand, landing in the straw precisely where the contents of her bucket of tar had spilled.
“Futuo!” she screamed, gaining her feet and fleeing from the stable straight into the arms of a swarm of Praetorian guards who had rushed to the scene but were already staggering back, shielding their faces from the intense heat of a blazing inferno racing to adjoining buildings under a brisk breeze
Well, the rest is history.
Nero, who had been at his country villa that night, returned in haste to a Rome engulfed in flames. Demanding the cause of the conflagration, he was presented with poor Baebiana Moorella.
He took one look at the nude beauty, held between two guards, and then at Hangus Treeius, who had turned up just at that moment and seemed to be, rather oddly, struggling to stand up straight.
Nero threw up his arms and shouted “crucify her!”
“Gladly!” replied Hangus Treeius.
Later that night, as he observed the freshly crucified Boebiania, writhing and twisting nakedly on her cross, backlit by a burning city, Loxoru remarked to his good friend, Markus Windarius, “This would make a great story. Be sure to record it for posterity.”
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M
montycrusto
Guest
Hahaha
Honestly I read that as “half-baked”
Ah, dearest Barb, in all your incarnations, SO close to perfection but never quite there..
My kind of story..
Booker Prize judges, take note!
windar
Teller of Tales
Well, which is it, Moore? Can't you make up your mind?
You swallowed plenty of the wine...
Who cares what you want?
Did they have Seagram's back then?
History is just fake news properly aged...
Such acts of barbarism... Tree cannot condone such actions (though approves of same)!!!
picky picky ... back in your cave, Goldman
windar
Teller of Tales
Shouldn't that be Homo oro?picky picky ... back in your cave, Goldman
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Julius Grafittus started doing that!
Barbare!? Bitte!?
Gaius Seagramus, purveyor to Nero's court!
Octavius Mussolinus was a good candidate to me!
Afterwards we imagined that story that Nero crucified thousands of naked women in a for the purpose built circus. They all got away with it!
Good and funny vignette, Barb!
Ah, dearest Barb, in all your incarnations, SO close to perfection but never quite there..
Careful Monty. That’s sailing rather close to demerit country.
Well, he didn’t make the cut, but one of his descendants did ... that’s another storyOctavius Mussolinus was a good candidate to me!
Giggle snortGaius Seagramus, purveyor to Nero's court!
Crux-Emperor Baracus X
Rectidolor
And Baracus was out of town*,when it happened...Well, he didn’t make the cut, but one of his descendants did ... that’s another story
Giggle snort
Never mind,the subsequent Crucifixions, soon kept him rather busy !!
*( no doubt arranging another shipment of Messaline's fine Gaul Crucifixion-timber....)
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Since most of the stock in Rome was lost in the fire too?
Crux-Emperor Baracus X
Rectidolor
Yeah,that didn't really help much....lolSince most of the stock in Rome was lost in the fire too?
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
At least some justice was done. It does make you wonder if Mrs. O'Leary's cow was given a bad rap in Chicago? Not that I'm calling Barb or any of her ancestors cows, of course (though I do recall a story with something about milking those large udders).
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windar
Teller of Tales
She may well have been. The reporter who published the original story, Michael Ahern of the Chicago Republican, admitted on the fortieth anniversary of the fire that he had made the story up. https://web.archive.org/web/20110110110402/http://www.chicagohistory.org/fire/oleary/essay-2.html
Ahern, by the way suffered the fate of so many writers. A fellow reporter said of him, "The booze got him many years ago, and he has not been able to do any newspaper work."