A ROMAN BARACK OBAMA?

Recent excavations at the site of Gaius Caeser's father-in-law's home have revealed a treasure trove of long lost ancient documents, including this fascinating autobiography of a Senator of the early empire.

I Baracus, born Baracus Usanus Obamacus, of a father from the province of Syria, and mother of the old Latins, equally blessed with honorable lineage from both parents, have undertaken this chronicle so that my true history might be told, and not that meandering relation of garbled hysterics so commonly sung by unscrupulous lute players whose fantastic inventions have so vexed my dignity, and troubled my sleep. For what is a man but what others know of him? Some say that truth resides only in a polished mirror, that the thoughts of others are beneath the consideration of a moral man --I say this is false! Do not our fellows act upon their beliefs, and from these actions come consequences which must be met not only by ourselves, but our children, and their children also? Thus however much I am true to my own conscience, I could not in good conscience proceed without reasonable respect for the opinions of my fellow citizens, desiring them to know the truth. So I have enlisted a chronicler to tell my story, having chosen from many who sought this employment that singular individual who knows this history in its entirety, as he is the only one among them who has lived it.
The circumstances of my birth are well known. My mother was fond of the attention bestowed on her by an ambitious student of the academy on the isle of Britannica, the same Syrian who gave me my name, as there was more interest shown on his part than there was issued from her fellow students, as they viewed her as merely another Roman among many, her rare gifts not at that time having become apparent enough to earn her much distinction. As many such marriages go, my father yearned to return to the place of his fathers, and my mother was not unhappy with her own world, so they departed their union, leaving only myself to continue as a remembrance of their time together.
These are not happy memories for me. Rebuked as a child by my peers who deemed me not so Roman as themselves, while I felt more a Roman than they, I struggled with the cruel jibes of my playmates. "Are not Syrians eaters of raw fish?" they taunted. "Are Syrians not known for their superstitions? Are they not counted among the barbarians?" However harsh their words, I was the better for my treatment, having so been imbued by this unsparing harshness with an unshakeable desire to prove my value to all Romans, so that my virtue could never again be denied.
As a young man, I pondered my choice of careers. Fond of declamation, I naturally oriented to that most honorable of professions, and studied the law under various masters of that art. As with all attorneys, I discovered that the straightest path to success at my vocation was honesty. Even now when my versimillitude is challenged, I have only to mention my first employment, and that is the last word in any contest over my honesty.

My First Case

I remember an early case well. A certain centurion, retired from the legion, and seeking to enjoy his superannuation in the sunny place of his birth, sought out my services. The centurion explained: "My uncle who brought me up until that time I took up the shield, and marched under a standard my twenty five years, left me his legacy in a will he showed me in full before its contents were sealed. Yet when my dear uncle's death took him from me at about the same time my enlistment was ended, I found that his wishes were not to be fulfullfilled, as a sister of mine some many years my junior had purloined the true roll, and in its place left a parchment of great craft, which to any who had not seen the original would seem to be the unmistakable writ of my uncle's hand, and which left the whole of my late relation's estate to that same sister, leaving me nought but trinkets as a great mockery."
My own inquiries into the matter confirmed the centurion's tale. His sister, Priscillus, despised by even her own family for her immodesty, backbiting, and malevolence, was no more likely to have been selected beneficiary than a rabid mule. And so I brought my argument to the court of the apposite municipality, relying heavily upon every text of rhetoric, logic and philosophy as the firm foundation for my own speech, thinking these sciences to comprise the penultimate language of
persuasion. Not suprisingly, then, when a poll of jurists hearing the case revealed their indifference to the finest of my points, and affinity for the duller strokes of my less learned adversary, I was greatly dismayed. Indeed, without the wise admonitions of my great friend Crispinus, I could not have continued before any bar.
"You see, my good Baracus" Crispinus enjoined me "The fault of your rhetoric is in its faultlessness. You are speaking before men, not pedagogues. Your reversion to the speech of the academy at best can only bore those before you, and at worst remind them of their own lack of brilliance. The fact that you yourself are intelligent, and speak in like manner, is not conducive at all to winning those low minded persons whose sycophancy has won them their places on the bench. Why, while you reeled out your finished elucidations of logic, they were all thinking of their next meal, or new wench. Forget your mind for a moment. I entreat you to speak to the flesh, not the spirit.
I pondered his words. "Where then, wise Crispinus, should I begin?"
"Away with those books! Here, let my slave fetch us a great measure of wine. We will examine the facts of your charge only after our abilities to make sense of them have been blotted out! And then we'll finally gain the truth of the matter!"
That night with Crispinus, we emptied many a bottle of wine, and laughed over many a hearty jest. An evening of stout learning!
And so in court I pleaded: "There, Priscilla, to her our eyes are directed, convicted of her innocence. She speaks shyly here, in such soft, reticent tones that one's sympathy is captured without hope of escape. Poor child. Poor me! I was myself so caught by her hypocrisy that had my eyes not slipped for a moment to catch her telling gambol 'cross the plaza I would still be deluded. She's tried to hide it here, but those fractured hips are another storyl --they've had more than a jostle or two! I hear it on the best confidence that she's made the local abortionist rich; he's named his chariot team her business financed the Priscillia! And her combless counselor over there with the befuddled look --why, she's scared the hair off his head! Watch your self boys! That pawky vixen think's she's already got your vote; next thing, she'll be after
your estate, too!"
The laughter from the room could be heard down to the bath. My case was won. Yet I was dejected.
"So it is Crispinus; reality is squalor."
"Certainly not, my friend. The material must be the clay of wise, or the shield of the wicked. What is
your choice?"
"Apparently, good Crispinus, I have no choice."
"The wise always have a choice, good friend. They are only separate by their pain for its consequences. That pain you feel, that awareness of choice, is the ultimate truth."
Even now, I still ponder over that conversation.

My Life as Senator

Another day in the river of life. I am a Senator, one of the first Syrians select to that August body, sitting in an anteroom. Fortune has seated next to me one Hillarus Agrippina, herself of the first female Senators. Hillarus leans over and smiles: "Baracus, you dissapoint. The Sons of Syria are untamed and polyphonic, unlike the women of our chamber who tremble at the rod and axe of their master."
Game for my defense I replied: "Those with minds need no minding. Only sheep seek a shepherd."
Her smile vanished: "Your party flails on the floor of our body like a net of herring dumped on the pier."
"So let me see this mystery of your imperium" I pretended to scoff, though secretly envious of her discipline. "I am curious at the amount of bribes you must pass."
Her jaw firmed:"Tomorrow I will bring you to the training place of my cadre, if you dare come. And there you will see the midwife of a kind of strength which cannot be purchased by any denarius."

Hilarus' slave left me the address of a gladitorial school. So I went at the appointed time. I could hear the sound of my own sandals on the stone path to it, as steady as the beat of time. But then! Clank Clank! Clank Clank! It is the sound of sword on sword, and prodded armour!
The sun hung the fine dust in the air, as it was kicked out by the astonished picture before me --beardless soldiers, sweating at their exercises! One, who seemed to be their leader, swerved to view me --she unlatches her helmet --Hillarus!
A firm grin: "Greetings, Baracus."
The soldiers: "Greetings, Baracus!"
The arm of Hilarus moves; her legion obeys and assembles.
Hilarus struts before them. "My soldiers have been in training for a special contest. Two of my greatest students, Degeneres and Rosarius, will this day match in combat."
Hillarus invited me to my chair as guest of honor. She proudly sat beside me, her troop in double rows at attention. Two women in armour swaggered to the center of the circus. One, stout and bull like, Rosarius! The other, nimble and slender, even now studying her opponent like a panther stalking her prey, hoping to dispatch the brute with a quick stroke.
The shouts of the combatants and roar of the soldiers (motionless in their perfect formation even as their voices thundered) must have been heard clear to the Alps! I am not able, not sufficient, not capable of telling this story! The violent charges of Rosarius! The flights of Degeneres through the air, and strokes of her keen weapon! We onlookers were battered by every blow, and felt every wound!
I am weary now. I have fought this fight with them.
Finally, Degeneres lands a fatal cut. Rosarius falls, cursing the gods who have abandoned her. Degeneres, though she has earned the honor, hesitates at the climax as she stands over the fallen one; her blade lingers. Rosarius sweats and heaves. Blood is hot.
And then Hilarus bounds, like an antelope, draws her own sword as she pushes aside the panther, And takes the head of Rosarius!
She turns to her troop, the eyes in the still living head of Rosarius reviewing them along with her executioner. "You see!" she shouts "Sacred Nike is not to be denied! The victor claims her prize!"
As an honored guest I am presented the trophy. Not wanting to offend, I accept the generous gift, and actually maintain it in a jar in my study as a lesson for any who would doubt the power of women.
And then, a strange ritual, a communion of bodies throwing off their armour, embracing their lusts with as much ardure as this day's two foes. I see Hillarus, in the midst of this writhing mass, look towards me. She grins; her eyes twinkle. "Baracus, would you share our agonies?"
"I am fatigued, dear Hilarus. Another day."
Hilarus calls out: "I am not so foolish" and returns to her pleasures.
Dejected. Hilarus has achieved her end. How can I surmount such strength? As usual in times of doubt, I consult Crispinus --by letter, as he is away.

"Most Excellent Crispinus: I have been shown a great wonder, the training camp of the Amazonians, the lair of Agrippina. As you know I have trained my horse to ride past the senate, but a female warrior stops his gallup. She is too severe.

B. "


"Esteemed Baracus: I am dismayed. Such credulity! You yourself have said many a time that spectacles are meant for the poor, and likewise to impress the barbarous. Are you any less discerning? What will I do with you? The riddle of women in armour is solved not in their training camp, but yours.

C."


Again, wise Crispinus!


Reader, you must know our party --the Club of the Gracchi, meets in the Spring at an ampitheatre on the grounds of the temple of Vulcan. And following our offering to our divine patron --in the form of living fish thrown into the flame, our party competes in tempestuous debate over who among us is the most capable of meeting our Republican opponents, and likewise tossing their corpulent, wriggling forms into the fire.
Antecedent to this raucaus occasion I sought solitude in the splendid garden of a freedman. There it was that I conceived a plan, through quiet contemplation in that paradise, soon to burst into existence amidst a wilder planting.

The Club Convenes
Our gathering in the ampitheatre is unusually quiet. Senators of our party mill about slowly in the cool. "Morning finds calm here only from the exertions of the evening" I tell a fellow Senator. The Senator: "I had to buy a new toga at daybreak; I shan't tell you how the other was torn. My head is still in the stars; I won't endure the afternoon sun."
My arm on his shoulder. "My friend, buck up! Soon you shall see a better entertainment."
The consul, pompous and prolix, starts us off. "Most august knights! Wise stewards! Gracious Lords! Great Jupiter looks down with pleasure on his most favored subjects. Rome bends to your counsel. Nations tremble at..."
The fellow with fresh cloth belches, and is asleep. I drift to my own recollections of last evening: my private meeting with Syria: The torches flickered in the Italian night. The countryside lives with owls' hoarse shouts, and the shrill enticements of wolves. It is not difficult to catch the attention of my compatriots in this bewitching darkness!
"Sons of Syria! We have been at this place before. Tonight debauchery of those free from the restraints of home. Tomorrow, factions will clash beneath the agitated particles of broadest light. The cohort of Hillarus will gently watch our petty quarrels, and when our vain gestures our spent --coalesce into an iron wall of solidarity! And we Syrians will be left with nothing, save our hard feelings towards one another, like children smarting from playground taunts, ignorant of any
higher duty. Many may say: 'I should side with Hillarus, because she has gotten me here.'And I will tell you, if Hillarus does you one favor, does she not then ask for a thousand? Is she not a shamelss flatterer? Do not her words, which cost her nothing, buy your votes, which cost you everything? Do her eyes not smile to see our squabbling, while she puts on the theatre mask of sorrow?"
My talk had its effect. One of my Syrians spoke up --"She is friendly, yet she is not our friend" and all agreed.
So I drew out my plan for all there to see, to meet the one who makes plans for none to see, of which none usually know its outlines, until they see the lines cross their own bodies.

The Fall of Hillarus

When the Syrians walked in that morning bleary eyed, Hillarus watching them file into the ampitheater must have thought they had been up partying as usual. Ironically, she was first to speak. Her manner was sober, firm and restrained --impressive to someone not used to her --to someone not yet used by her. She droned on about the high price of olive oil, wars on the frontiers, plebeian rights. She had an opinion about everything; the usual mishmash. And then with a patronizing tone which even someone of her high art could not disguise, she invited one of our own to speak.
The Senator pleased her greatly: essentially, asking Hillarus to side with him over an incredibly silly dispute. Precisely what she expected.
Another Syrian spoke: "Sir I will not waste my energy answering you --as everyone knows you're an ignorant, ergastula born peasant only accepted into this body for the comic relief your comedic comments provides. His opponent: "And you, sir have the whole of the empire's philosophers occupied out of their fascination with the study of your fantastical perversions."
Hillarus frowned at the degenerate debate, while her eyes danced merrily. I began to give up hope. Perhaps, I thought, we of Syria are indeed a lot of tramontane bumpkins, too stupid resist the manipulation. The acrimony worsened. I feared a hand might reach to a dagger. I paid no attention, then, when after a day of this sort the final vote was taken to determine the leader of the Gracchi. Friend, the devastation on the face of Hillarus as she saw our brave Syrians without a single exception vote for myself, can never be written in word, painted on canvas, or cut in stone.
Priceless.
Her Amazons were confused. Used to watching their leader triumph, they did not know what to do when she failed. Even more humiliating for Hillarus, after the vote was finished, and it was clear that the undivided Syrians and their allies had chosen myself to lead our party, she was jeared and laughed at as she walked out of the ampitheater at the head of her troop.
I was not expecting what she did next. As she was nearly out of the ampitheatre, she suddenly rushed up to me, and with a countenance which would have terrified Cerebus, threatened in her acid voice: "Obamacus, you believe you have prevailed. Enjoy your moment; it will not endure. I will hunt you. I shall not rest until you are sewn into a sack with a dog, a snake, and a monkey, and thrown living into the Tiber!"
Though staggered at this venom, I collected myself, and replied: "It is curious that you mention the river. For there your lesson is best learned. Go there, kneel down and lift up a palm full of water. And as the liquid slips through your fingers, be mindful of your greatest lesson: that blood is thicker than water!"

Thus the first half of my journey to the office of Imperator. Yet I could not rest. For before me a different, and far more formidable opponent awaited. A grizzled veteran of many years with his legion in the dark German forests, scarred by a thousand battles, known to eat the living hearts of his enemies as their bodies ly in his shadow. One who even the Republicans could not control even as he emerged to be their leader: The Great Macanus!