History vs. Vampires – Battle in the Marketplace

No, this is not a new book but rather an ongoing concern for historical novelists and readers of the genre. I’ve just read an article in the latest edition of SOLANDER, the magazine of the Historical Novel Society, which warrants a bit of discussion.

The article, entitled "Recession Reading" takes a look at the state of historical fiction in today’s market, a market that has been hit by the economic downturn of the last few years. Some genres are booming however, and the one on top right now seems to be Teen Vampire Novels! Sure, I can understand the draw of the paranormal as something inherent in human beliefs – the unknown, the mysterious and inexplicable, something bigger than ourselves. But what does the rise of the vampire novel mean for the fate of historical fiction?

Not much, as Vampire novels are a fad and, like ‘chick lit’ or other catch phrase genres, it will have its time in the spotlight (maybe the dark since vampires don’t like light). Historical fiction can be long lasting. Look at the Iliad and the Odyssey, thousands of years and still going strong! The trick, whether you have a ‘marquee character’ or not, is to have themes, conflict and a range of emotions that resonate with readers, things that our humanness can tap in to. And who’s to say that you can’t combine history and the paranormal. Elizabeth Kostova wrote a historical novel about Dracula, and the Historian was a massive debut novel that garnered much praise and commercial success even though it wasn’t that mainstream. Alice Borchardt, Anne Rice’s sister, also wrote some historical fantasy novels about Romans and werewolves. The two genres can indeed live in harmony.

Some writers, agents and publishers however, take a darker view of the market and today’s readership. Said article quotes maritime historical novelist James Nelson as saying that “Historical fiction for men is dead.” Mr. Nelson is also reported to have suggested that the historical novels that end up on the store shelves may be an issue of gender rather than the market or the emergence of new formats. I’m not quite sure I agree with this and though it may be true of maritime historical novels, there are other historical novelists who are quite successful such as Steven Pressfield, Simon Scarrow and relative newcomer, Christian Cameron. These three write novels that appeal to, and are purchased by, men. Ok, women account for a much larger portion of historical fiction readers, but men are certainly in there. Historical fiction for men is certainly not dead.

Here’s a question: Can historical fiction overcome gender boundaries? And if so, could that be the key to revival and success?

I would argue, YES, of course it can! Having worked as a bookseller I have had numerous conversations with store patrons about what they like, what they don’t like and what they want to see more of. In my experience, some authors appeal equally to both men and women; writers such as Jack Whyte (Dream of Eagles series), Guy Gavriel Kay (historical fantasy), Bernard Cornwell (his Arthurian cycle), Lindsay Davis (Falco novels) and Steven Saylor (Rome sub Rosa series). There are just a few examples of many that I have noticed appeal to both men and women. There are many more. In North America we sometimes have trouble looking beyond our borders to read things over seas as well. When I was living in Scotland and England, I was constantly amazed by the number of men I spoke to at the pub or elsewhere who were interested in archaeology, Roman and medieval history and the knowledge with which they spoke about these subjects. This is due to the nature of television programming there and the fact that the remnants of those periods of history are right in their own backyards, quite literally (watch Time Team!). For my own writing, my test readers for CHILDREN OF APOLLO have included both men and women and both groups have been interested and want to read more, read on. That is encouraging and perhaps indicates that I have not written with one specific sex in mind. I’m just writing about the human condition and hopefully, victory will follow.

But I digress. The SOLANDER article mentions a conservatism on the part of publishers in this current economic climate that is worrisome for writers at the moment. They want what is popular, they want vampires! I think that what is forgotten at times is that the trends are created by those publishers who will take chances, just like the publisher who took a chance on wizard stories written by someone named J.K. Rowling, or even Vampire stories by a certain Stephanie Meyer. I don’t think I need to say much more than that. Historical fiction is always on readers’ radar in one form or another, sometimes peppered with the paranormal, sometimes with hardcore scholarship. Be it ancient Egypt, Rome or Greece, medieval England, the Wild West or World War II, there are people out there who want to read this stuff, on paper, on the internet or on an e-reader. Young and old audiences both are ready and waiting for something old to be given a fresh new face. Historical fiction definitely has staying power and will not be yielding in the battle for the marketplace any time soon.

(Roman Cavalry painting by Peter Connolly - great historical re-creation artist)

CHILDREN OF APOLLO - excerpt 2

It has been a while since I posted the first excerpt of CHILDREN OF APOLLO and so, as a few folks have asked for more, I am posting another little bit. This does not come immediately after the first excerpt but rather a few chapters into the book.

The main story begins in A.D. 202 and after a lengthy, dangerous patrol from Aegyptus to Numidia our hero, Tribune Lucius Metellus Anguis, is on furlough with his men for games at the amphitheatre of Thysdrus (modern El Jem in Tunisia - this photo). This is a magnificent site in the middle of plains of olive groves and the structure itself is better preserved the the Colisseum in Rome. While exploring this site, you can certainly hear the crowds, see the skilled displays of the fighters, hear the pain of their defeat or the roar of their victories. The following is one of the fights witnessed by Lucius and his cohort of men.

(from Chapter VIII - Iugula!)

The tribune stood there, lost in thought until he was brought to by the clanging of swords and the renewed roar of the crowd. The final combat had begun, the previous one all but forgotten. Lucius decided not to go back into the theatre but rather to watch from one of the empty corridors that led to the arena floor.
He could see the two heavily armed gladiators moving about the sand in their dance of death. A murmillo and a thraex or Thracian fighter. Lucius watched as the two heavy-helmed gladiators pummeled each other relentlessly to the droning of drums and the cries of bloodthirsty spectators. Lucius wondered what drove these men and where they found their strength. Was it made easier by the fact that each was fighting a faceless foe? They dazzled the audience with an incredible array of slashes and parries, displaying their skills with incredible determination to win and live. Both were bleeding profusely, the murmillo from a cut to the right leg and the thraex from a gash across his muscular chest.
The sand went red about their shuffling feet and in a barely perceptible instant the murmillo’s shield flew from his sweaty hand allowing the thraex to parry a desperate sword thrust and land a heavy kick to the vulnerable man’s chest with the bronze greave covering his leg. The murmillo tumbled onto the ground, winded. He moved to get up but the thraex was upon him, knocked his sword from his bloodied hand. He made to get up yet again but the thraex smashed him in the centre of his face with the boss of his small shield, ripping his helmet from his head.
He groaned as he lay there on the clotted sand and raised his right hand in a sign for mercy and surrender. Lucius’ heart began to pound, the blood flowing to his head and ears, as if he could feel the adrenaline from every person there present. Inwardly, he hoped to hear the word that would save his life, missum, missum, enough death for today. The thraex stood above the fallen murmillo, flipped him over onto his stomach and grabbed him by his bloody hair. He glanced up and around at the standing crowd. They cheered. Then, almost in total concert, they began to chant aloud, “Iugula! Iugula! Iugula!”, Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!
The thraex looked to the editor who nodded gravely. The victor pulled the murmillo’s head back to expose his neck and pulsing veins. Lucius could hear the shouts of his troops as the lethal blade was drawn slowly and cleanly across the fallen man’s neck. His blood spilled out to soak the sand of the arena one last time before his head was released and he fell to the ground. The thraex made his way to the editor’s platform to receive his prize, the palm branch for victory. Upon his head was also placed the valued corona, a laurel wreath for outstanding achievement; he had won ten consecutive fights and for the day he was the people’s hero.
Dressed as the thraex, this man had appeared invincible and imposing, but with his head bared and his weapons shed, he was no longer a gladiator but a young man, no older than Lucius. The youthful innocence of his face and curly black hair betrayed the sight that all had just witnessed, adding to what Lucius thought to be the incredible juxtaposition of the Roman arena. Lucius turned to go out and wait for his men in the open air, away from the amphitheatre.

Unveiling the Obscure

Some time ago, in my entry entitled The Hundredth Book about Caesar? I talked about a member of our writers' group whose book is set during the reign of Emperor Maximian and how he was told by an agent that people would rather read the hundredth book about a well-known historical personage than about an obscure emperor no one knew anything about.

A book I finished recently has helped, in my mind, to combat the narrow view outlined above. In my last entry I mentioned that I was about to start the historical novel Family Favourites by Alfred Duggan. Having finished said book in a short period of time I can say that Duggan sets up a sturdy shield wall in the face of the ‘hundredth book about Caesar’ theory.

Family Favourites, written by Duggan in 1963, takes a close look at the reign of the teenage Emperor Elagabalus, a descendant of the Severan dynasty and the Syrian priests of the sun god at Emesa. The story is told from the point of view of a Gaul who ended up serving in the Legions during the civil war at the end of the second century A.D., a war in which Septimius Severus was the victor. Family Favourites throws the reader headlong into the third century Roman Empire and gives an intimate, human, amazing and sometimes distasteful view of Imperial politics in which every action, decision, had to be weighed in order for a foreign ruler to maintain the loyalty of the Praetorians, the regular Legions and the people of Rome, the mob. The fact that Elagabalus was only thirteen when he came to the purple adds a palpable uncertainty. His family included Julia Maesa (sister to Julia Domna, Severus’s brilliant Empress) and her daughters Julia Mamaea (mother of future Alexander Severus) and Julia Soaemias (mother of Elagabalus); these ‘Syrian women’ were some of the most powerful women in history to that point, intelligent, strategic, caring and sometimes ruthless. And sadly, they are little-known to most of today’s readers.

I won’t summarize the story because only the book can do itself justice. It does strike me however that even though most readers would be unaware of these historical personages or this period of Roman history, they would still thrill to this novel that puts the inner imperial workings under the lens. Good historical fiction can and should transport the reader so that they can experience time and place unlike our own, no matter the ruler at the time. I think (and this is just my opinion as a reader, writer and former bookseller) that most people read historical fiction not only to learn about people of the past, but also to feel, experience, the past. When I read, or write for that matter, a bit of good historical fiction I want to hear the roar of a crowd at the amphitheatre or hippodrome, feel the rumble of their feet pounding in unison. I want to smell the incense that might be burning in a corner brazier of a room used by an Emperor or the aroma of a stew a poor Suburan family might be eating at meal time.

Many great writers have taken on Caesar, but they have also tackled more obscure characters. The strength of the tales is in how they are told, I think, more than what exactly is told. That’s the beauty of historical fiction, that it can pump new life into old tales, give new perspective and almost reincarnate heroes, villains and villagers.

Ave Marcus Antonius!

I am always on the lookout for new historical novels or novelists that I have not yet had a chance to read. After reading an article on historical fiction in the Historical Novels Review, I had a few names of past writers that I took with me to my local library. The trip was quite successful.

One of the authors I came across was Allan Massie, who writes the rugby column for the Scotsman. As it turns out, Mr. Massie has written several novels of ancient Rome including, Augustus, Tiberius, Antony, Caesar, Caligula and Nero's Heirs. Not all of them were available but of the ones that were, I decided to begin with Antony.

Gore Vidal says of Allan Massie that he is "Master of the long-ago historical novel." Well, you would have to read more to decide that for yourself but I can say, having just finished Antony, that Mr. Massie has taken an exceptionally unique approach. The novel is Antony's memoir, written after the battle of Actium but before Octavian (later Augustus) takes Aegyptus. Most everyone knows the story of Antony and Cleopatra so I won't go into it here. The character that Massie creates of Antony is of the type of man that was able to approach the greatness of an Alexander. Where the latter heralded the beginning of the Hellenistic age, so did Antony prove to be the final hero of that same age. He was victorious in battle, loved by Rome and by his Legions, and known the world over as the possible provider of a golden age and even as Dionysos incarnate. Truly an amazing character that Mr. Massie has managed to portray with humour, bravery, honour and pathos. Godlike and yet vulnerably human as well.

I would certainly recommend this book just for its portrayal of Antony however, the picture painted of Cleopatra is certainly unflattering. This historian in me was cringing whenever Mr. Massie's version of her would appear as she is a spoiled, conniving woman who just comes across as stupid. This flies in the face of what historians such as Michael Grant and writer/historians such as Steven Saylor have been saying which is that Cleopatra was nowhere near stupid but was a highly intelligent woman who spoke countless languages, had a keener political insight that even Caesar himself and had a vision of the future that required an equally great partner such as she had in Caesar or Antony. To balance out Massie's sad adaptation of Cleopatra, one should definitely read Michael Grant's biography of her which is not too long but loaded with helpful information and great research.

Truth is, we all have different perceptions of how things should or should not be, even in hindsight. Unless a personal diary emerged from either Antony or Cleopatra, we will likely never know the true story of their rise and fall, their loves and hates. The reality may not be Shakespeare but it may not be that far off either. Remember, history is almost always written by the victors and in this instance, the victor was Octavian, later Augustus, who had launched a masterful propaganda campaign against Cleopatra and Marcus Antonius, one of the greatest Romans of the age. Perhaps this is an example of how fiction can indeed become history?

Despite a couple of little dislikes, I will definitely pick up another of Mr. Massie's Roman novels. The other novelist I picked up at the library was Alfred Duggan who wrote some Roman novels earlier in the 20th century. I now have Mr. Duggan's novel, Family Favourites which is about the Severan Emperor Elagabalus who was one of the successors of Septimius Severus and Caracalla in whose reigns my own novels are set. I'll let you all know how that one turns out.

Clash of the Titans - 1981 vs. 2010

The other night I went to see the new Clash of the Titans movie with Sam Worthington in the lead role as Perseus, son of Zeus and Danae. Now, this is a story that I have really held dear for most of my life, having begged my father to take me back to the theatre to see the original movie four times when I was a kid.

I can still recall quite vividly how I felt seeing the flick in 1981 at the theatre in Devonshire Mall in Windsor so very long ago. From the moment Acrisius casts the coffin (for lack of a better word) into the sea I was bewitched with a sense of something ancient, magical. The Gods, the moon, the weapons of 'divine temper', all of it. Wonderful. I was scared to death of the scenes with Medusa and Calibos, well he was just a nightmarish figure that added to the mystery of it all. Pegasus is still the best - who doesn't want a winged horse?

So, how does Clash of the Titans 2010 stand up to the old one? Well, I'm not one to automatically opt for an older version of something just because it is the original (such as many folks do for something like Star Wars). In fact, these two versions of this ancient tale are quite different from each other but stand well side by side.

Clash of the Titans 2010 has been updated with loads of CGI and a few new characters such as Draco and Io (Goddess of the Dawn) and Hades (God of the Underworld). Things have also been bloodied quite a bit so this will not be a good idea for a six year old kid. On the upside, the female characters are stronger, Sam Worthington does a surprsingly good job as Perseus and the beasts are all amazing, especially Pegasus (still my favourite).

There are some things I did not like, however. Sometimes, the statement that 'less is more' is true and it is just so in this case. In the original movie, the music was not littered and driven throughout the movie as it is in the new one. One scene where I found this particularly annoying is the Medusa scene. The original was terrifying just because your senses were on edge - almost no music and the only sounds were Medusa's rattling tail, Perseus' laboured breathing and a few hissing arrows. That made for a very intense, dramatic scene. In the new film, there is just too much going on with all the action blanketed in non-stop, driving music.

As I have said in my previous post on 'Hollywood Historicals' however, if a movie generates interest in something, even if it is causing one young person to pick up a book of Greek Mythology and read a bit, that is truly a good thing. I'm sure Clash of the Titans 2010 will have achieved this. Sure, things have changed (the Gods wear shiny armour and Argos is a city packed onto a seaside mountain) but if these tales are to remain timeless, they need to be made current for new audiences and I can find no fault in that. Better an updated, different version of a classic than that very classic turning to dust in the wind.

In short, I love the original Clash of the Titans and highly enjoyed the new one. Both are works of art that succeed in transporting the viewer and bringing to life an ancient world of gods, heroes and magnificent creatures. It all fires the imagination. May there be many more such works!

photo: Relief of Pegasus at the Temple of Peace, Thurburbo Majus, Tunisia

CHILDREN OF APOLLO - excerpt 1

In the past few weeks I have received three a few e-mails from folks asking about my own writing and expressing an interest in reading some samples of CHILDREN OF APOLLO which is the first book in the Eagles and Dragons series. I'm flattered by the expressions of interest and thank you. Now, time to deliver! I will be posting occasional excerpts of the book as a sort of amuse bouche for the historically inclined and fiction fans. Interest is certainly up with several new books on ancient themes out as well as movies such as Clash of the Titans. And there is still talk of a Gladiator sequel as well as an adaptation of Marguerite Yourcenar's book, Memoirs of Hadrian.
Keep up the e-mails and by all means, make use of the comment boxes within the blog. Perhaps we can get some conversations going?
For the moment, I hope you enjoy this first excerpt. It is the Prologus of CHILDREN OF APOLLO and is sort of where it all begins for the Metellus Anguis family, on the eve of the battle of Zama when Rome defeats Hannibal Barca.

(Warning! Some formatting may have suffered during the posting of these words.)

202 B.C.

She was like a weathered sack of bones, possessed bones. The seeress rocked back and forth, inhaling the pungent smoke of the fire. Her body creaked and a childlike whining emanated from deep within her throat.
What am I doing here? the Roman thought as he knelt uncomfortably on the other side of the flames. I’m a soldier, a man of reason.
The woman was Punic, of Carthage. His first thought was to have her flogged out of camp but he could not, not after seeing the look in her eyes when she clutched his forearm with her gnarled fingers.
“The Gods send me to you with a message,” she had whispered. “You must hear it!”
Reason or not, Punic or not, he could not afford to offend the Gods.
“Come inside,” he remembered saying before she shuffled past his personal guard. And now he sat there, dizzy with smoke on the morning of battle, audience to the ramblings of a decrepit hag.
The wind on the plain was up. It lashed the tent walls, pulled the roof skyward. There was a loud bang, not like thunder or angry gales, but like a distant call or announcement. The Roman clutched his knees, tried to hold back the bile that rose up in his throat.
Pieces of papyrus flew about the tent, a lamp fell over and went out in the sand. The fire was suddenly still. The crone threw her head back as if slapped, gurgled some words in a tongue he did not know. Her eyes rolled and she nodded. The Roman looked around but they were alone. He felt cold, began to sweat where the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
The seeress collapsed and the flames began to move again. The Roman got to his feet and moved to her side. She was breathing. He nudged her gently.
“Woman. Are you all right?” He tried not to let his fear or disgust show.
The bones suddenly jerked to life and her arms clawed at his, pulling him down as she crawled up, something out of the underworld. She was strong.
“I have words…I have words…” Her voice was raspish, her breath fowl. But, he had to listen. It was as though someone were pushing him downward to her, from behind. “It will be a mark of greatness in your line.”
“What will?” His voice shuddered, fear beginning to show as his courage waned. “My line is already great.” He tried to sound defiant but she shook her head, her eyes now open.
“For blood and butchery, maybe. The God has given you this symbol of wisdom and strength. You are chosen to carry it.”
“Which god? What symbol? I don’t understand. Chosen for what? Tell me!” He held her tightly by the shoulders, bones lost in his grip.
Then, her appearance, her features, softened so that she resembled a kindly grandmother. She spoke soothingly to him.
“You are blessed Metellus.” She reached for the filthy satchel she had brought with her, rooted around inside. “I had a dream…” she muttered, “…in it…I saw this.” She drew something out, something no larger than the palm of her wrinkled hand.
“What is it?” he asked.
She held it up to the firelight, turned it around reverently. It was a flat, clay image of a dragon.
“This is the symbol of your line to come.” She handed it to him. He accepted it, still unsure as to the meaning. “It is a symbol of wisdom, of strength.”
“Yes, you said that already,” he responded impatiently.
She raised her arms as if to the heavenly stars. “He has honoured you with it.”
“Who?”
“The God.”
“Which one?”
“You will know when you are ready. He will come to you as he always comes to the chosen.”
The Roman shuddered at the thought. “Visited by a god?” Out in the camp, horns roused the army.
“I must go,” she said abruptly, packing up her things and standing.
“Wait! I have many questions.”
“Men always do.” She turned back to him. “They will be answered in time. For now, keep this symbol with you always.” She closed his hand around it. “Pass it on to the worthiest of your line only.”
“Why?”
She became impatient, as one does with a child who questions without end. “It is sacred, powerful, meant only for those strong enough to bear the burden.” She paused, peered into his eyes one last time. “Remember. You fight for more than yourself this day at Zama, more than Rome’s glory. I must go.”
“Wait, I’ll call you an escort out of camp…”
She was gone.


photo: Temple of Apollo, Ancient Corinth

The Realm of Goodness

Something interesting happened to me on the subway the other day. I was standing as usual, swaying like a blade of grass along with all the other commuters in the middle of the car. I was reading the latest instalment in Steven Saylor’s Roma Sub Rosa series, the Triumph of Caesar (by the way, great book, Steven!). Anyhow, there I am standing, and swaying, trying to look cool because I don’t have to hold the overhead bar due to my impressive ability to keep my balance and read at the same time. Then, cursing under my breath because of the driver’s sudden breaking that made me do a little skip-hop so I wouldn’t fall over (completely un-cool!).

Having regained my composure, I look up to see this guy looking at my book’s cover, smirking, shaking his head. I pretended to read on, oblivious, but I could tell as he looked from side to side at our fellow passengers, he was eager to say something. Had he a soapbox, he would have stood on top of it and let loose whatever it was he wanted to let loose. Don’t look up, I told myself, Don’t look up or he’ll start talking.

Shit. I looked. He saw me and focused on me, unswerving, his audience whether I liked it or not. The book being a trade paperback, it was really too small to lift high enough to block him out. No more quiet ride for me. It would be five more stations from hell with the guy that likes to talk aloud on the subway to no one in particular. I don’t mean schizophrenic, no, as have most urban dwellers, I have had my share of run-ins with those unfortunates – in one week, I actually spoke with (was spoken to is more accurate) three different Jesus’ on my commute. The guy staring at me and my choice of book was just a blowhard commuter-talker. I couldn’t take it anymore. I put on my most imposing scowl.

“What are you looking at?” I queried.
“Unbelievable.” He shook his head disapprovingly, smirked. “I can’t believe people read crap like that.”
I shook my own head in a sort of ‘whatever’ gesture and went back to my reading (really just staring at the page). He was not to be put off now. Contact had been made.
“They were just crazy back then, all nuts.”
“What are you talking about?” He lit up when I answered and ploughed on.
“Back in history, man. What you’re reading about. Rome is it?”
“Yes. Julius Caesar.”
“Ha!” he actually made the other passengers around us jump. “Ya see, crazy bastard. One of the biggest.”
“Actually, he wasn’t crazy. He was a brilliant general and strategist.’
“Did he kill lots of people?”
“A great many people died as a result of his actions, yes.” What else could I say at that point? That much was true, but Caesar certainly was not crazy. This guy on the other hand could probably claim the title, I remember thinking.
“There you have it. Crazy! Looney tunes.”
“Wait a second,” I chirped. “I don’t think you realize how much we depend on today came out of the ancient world. And not everyone was nasty or ‘crazy’ as you say.”
“Yeah, right. Everyone’s reading stories about stuff that happened so long ago when people killed whenever they liked and robbed and went to war.”
“Like there are no wars going on now?” I butted in sarcastically.
“All I’m saying, man, is that things are better today and maybe they could be better if people would read good stories like Twilight.”
“I suppose vampires and werewolves are all goodness, not crazy at all?”
“This is my stop! He moved to the doors waiting for them to open. Before jumping out he turned around. “By the way, you talk funny, man!”

And with that final adieu, the village idiot exited train right leaving me, looking like a moron in front of all the other readers. I crossed verbal swords with a commuter-talker and failed (I secretly hoped he was a brilliant actor trying out a character). I tried to burry my face in my book but could not concentrate for the remaining two stops, knowing that everyone was casting a pitiful glance at me from above the covers of their own books.

That night, I brought this incident up at my book group. Throughout the day I had actually been thinking a lot about what that guy had said. In a weird sort of way I suppose he was trying to be profound, a la Rain Man maybe. But I decided he was absolutely wrong about all people in the past being crazy. Never mind that that sort of statement doesn’t really apply to any age of human existence. There have of course been violent, or mad or brilliant people at any point in time. Thankfully there has always been goodness and peace to balance things out. Themes of good versus evil, light and dark are a part of us, our stories.

A blog is not really the place to explore this theme at length. However, it is worth addressing this idea in that historical fiction often does focus on people whose brutal or violent deeds are highlighted rather than whether they were good to say, their lovers, their children or their mothers and fathers. Could it be that the ‘craziness’ of the big historical hitters (Alexander, Caesar, Attila etc.) only serve to highlight the plight and the human goodness of our fictional characters about whom the real core of the stories is about?

It should be said however, the modern age does NOT have a monopoly on goodness. One has only to look at the local, national or international news on a given day to see that. In the ancient and medieval worlds, literary works (fictional or not) served to enlighten and teach the populace, to help mortals rise to greatness. Teaching texts such as the Mabinogi served to raise princes who could rule wisely and justly so that they could serve their kingship, their people well. How many prime ministers or presidents do we wish had such devoted training in ideals and morals?

One example of a past culture that stands out to me is the culture of courtly love that began some time in the 12th century at the court of Eleanor or Aquitaine and gave rise to many of the popular Arthurian tales we know today, and which are still relevant. These tales explore the virtues of not only romantic love but also of courtesy, kindness toward women and fellow man, honour in deeds and all those wonderful things that some folks are quick to label as clichés today because they find such behaviour, such ideals too difficult to understand or carry out. What I’m saying is, that an age that could idealize such thoughts can not be so full of evil and void of goodness, just as a golden age that gave rise to theatre, to marble temples and law codes is not completely wicked. Not all creations are made to bring about death and destruction.

As I see it, the art of historical fiction reconciles the past and the present ages, exposing readers not only to past evils but also to past goodness. It teaches us important values and ideals by contrasting them with the wickedness of those that have gone before. As a result, the heroes of the past (fictional or historical) are raised up as shining examples to which it would do us all no end of good to aspire.

Manuscript page from the Duc de Berry's

Book of Hours - c. 1410