S.J.A. Turney's Books & More

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Competition Time

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Do you want to win a collection of Roman goodies?

Do you?

Well here’s your chance. One lucky winner can get their hands on this amazing prize:

Prize

And all you have to do to win this prize is to upload to my Facebook Page a photo of you with a copy of Caligula somewhere interesting. That’s right. Just post your pic here, and you’re in with a chance to win. It can be a hardback, paperback or ebook with the cover showing, I don’t care. Here’s my feeble effort, but I have to try, coz if I won, the postage would be REALLY cheap…

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I know. The expression. I look like an axe murderer. But that’s just the terrifying thought of having to let this lot go: Here’s what’s in the prize:

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Signed copies of the first three Praetorian novels

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Roman ‘as’ coin of Caligula, obverse Caligula with head bare, reverse Vesta seated.

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CD of the album ‘Bloom’ by the excellent band ‘Caligula’s Horse’ AND the DVD of the classic BBC series ‘I Claudius’. Note that the DVD is region 2…

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A bottle of excellent red wine made from the same Aglianico grape and in the same locale as the ancient Falernian wine, the slopes of Mount Falernus in Campania.

AND… Caligula himself as used in my various promotional photos over the year

That’s the prize. I hope I win it! But it’ll probably go to one of you lucky people. The winner (the most interesting pic) will be chosen by an independent celebrity, and not myself, to avoid any preferential treatment. The winner will be drawn on Friday 21st of December, so get thinking and photographing. And, of course, if you haven’t bought and read Caligula yet, now is the best time ever.

Good luck everyone.

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Written by SJAT

November 30, 2018 at 11:53 am

Caligula – from the horse’s mouth

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Mad, bad and dangerous to know. Well, actually, that was Lady Caroline Lamb describing Lord Byron. But it got your attention…

So I don’t often blather about my own books on this blog, but today is release day for the paperback of Caligula. And while like every author I love books to sell for obvious reasons, this is the first book I’ve sold that you can readily buy in bricks-and-mortar bookshops. And the success of Caligula will determine how many sequels I get to write. Caligula is out there, and Commodus is coming in spring, but there could be two more. If you lovely people buy Caligula, that is.

Caligula. A new telling of an old, old story.

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Rome 37AD. The emperor is dying. No-one knows how long he has left. The power struggle has begun.

When the ailing Tiberius thrusts Caligula’s family into the imperial succession in a bid to restore order, he will change the fate of the empire and create one of history’s most infamous tyrants, Caligula.

But was Caligula really a monster?

Forget everything you think you know. Let Livilla, Caligula’s youngest sister and confidante, tell you what really happened. How her quiet, caring brother became the most powerful man on earth.

And how, with lies, murder and betrayal, Rome was changed for ever . . .

So now is the time. If you like your Roman history, try Caligula. And watch out on my social media for the next week for one heck of a competition to win some AMAZING goodies. Wander in to your local book store and order it. Or go online and buy it. Christmas is coming up. I bet your dad would love to read a juicy tale about Rome’s most infamous emperor. Heh heh heh.

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Caligula is available in paperback (or hardback) with free worldwide delivery from Book Depository here.

The kindle edition is available here (UK and Commonwealth only, sadly not in the US)

Also available as an Audible audio book here. And really, it doesn’t get better than in the lovely tones of Laura Kirman.

That’s it, lovely people. All I have. Now off to potentially plot two more damned emperors.

🙂

Vale

Written by SJAT

November 15, 2018 at 10:13 pm

Silk and the Sword by Sharon Bennett Connolly

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Almost a year ago, I read and reviewed one of the most innovative and refreshing historical texts I have ever come across, that being Heroines of the Medieval World by Sharon Bennett Connolly (my review can be found here).

Imagine my glee in being able to dive in to Sharon’s second treatment of historical women, then. Silk and the Sword: the women of the Norman conquest is released in just three days’ time (15th of November). You can pre-order it here.

In ‘Heroines…’ Sharon gave us a very detailed, thought provoking, and fascinating view into an aspect of history that is rarely covered in academia: the feminine perspective. She explored what it meant to be a woman in the Medieval era, illustrating her narrative  by telling us the tales of some of the most interesting women ever to grace the pages of history.

Silk and the Sword is at one and the same time a similar sort of treatment, and yet quite different. Once more we are shown the lives and events and personalities of some incredible women, but in this case, those women tell a tale in almost chronological order. ‘Silk’ attempts to give us the events of the 11th century, and the book is split into three constituent parts.

Part one sets the scene from the beginning of the century, explaining the lead up to those tumultuous events of 1066. The political and social situation is revealed, and the acts and struggles of the kings, dukes, earls and other great men are shown to us through the lives of the women who were part of it all. From an initial chapter of ground-laying, we move into the lives of Emma of Normandy, the famous Godiva of Mercia, Gytha of Wessex and Judith of Flanders. Given the regions I’ve just described in the names of these women alone you can also see another aspect of this book that I appreciated. Too often the tale of 1066 is told with a focus on Normans, Harold Godwinson and the Norwegian invaders. This treatment gives us a much more holistic view, approaching the events of that year, the lead-up, and the aftermath, from many angles.

Part two deals with the conquest itself, again with an opening chapter to set out the facts before leading us through this critical time via the lives of Edith of Wessex, the series of women in the life of the fascinating Harald Hardrada, the mysterious Edith Swanneck and Ealdgyth of Mercia (Harold’s early love and his later wife). And do not think because Sharon is focusing on the women of the time that any of the war and politics of the invasion is missed out. This is not the case.

Part three leads us through the aftermath of the conquest, once more with an opening chapter setting out the facts. This chapter ends with one line that seems to seal the fate of the country: “England had been conquered by the Normans.” But there is more to the aftermath of 1066 that simply a change in the ruling family. We’ve all seen right down a century and a half later in the tales of Robin Hood how the land is still portrayed as a broken and divided one between Norman overlord and Saxon underdog. This section of the book deals with the events following the conquest and the world it creates, seen through the lives of Matilda of Flanders, Queen Margaret of Scotland and Gundrada de Warenne (and here, for me, we start to enter more familiar territory, for I am aware of the powerful de Warenne family.) But the very last chapter of this part is for me the most fascinating of the book, for I love a historical mystery, and I enjoyed watching Sharon attempt to piece together the possible identity of a mysterious women shown in the Bayeux Tapestry (Aelgyva).

On a personal note, I wrote Caligula a couple of years ago, and Commodus this past year, both of which deal with famous, or more realistically infamous, Roman emperors and great events, and both are told from the point of view of the women in those emperors’ lives. So it was nice to see something similar happen to the great men of the Norman conquest. And in an odd moment of synchronicity, the paperback of Caligula is released on the very same day as Silk and the Sword.

Once more a refreshing and unique look at the women of British history, this book offers a perspective you’ll not find in any other work on the events of 1066. If you know the era and it’s already of interest to you, then you’ll find something new here and if, like me, you only knew the bare bones and the more famous names involved, then you’ll learn much in an enjoyable and innovative way.

Silk and the Sword is a valuable addition to any reference library on the Medieval world and simply a very good read.

Highly recommended.

Written by SJAT

November 12, 2018 at 11:33 am

Lemures – a short story for the Halloween season

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Nemesis

Caius Attius Flaccus stood in the atrium of his villa and shuddered. Something ran up his spine like ice on bare flesh, making him quail and quiver on the spot.

He snarled at his own failings and took a step closer to the small impluvium pool, looking down into the gathered rainwater, disturbed by the occasional drip from the atrium’s sloping tile roof. A sad, slightly misshapen, warped face looked back up at him, and he resisted the urge to look away. Most often he looked away – almost always, in fact, he looked away – for that rippling reflection caused more than just a shudder.

The left ear was fine. A beautiful ear, even.  A classic example that would look fitting on a statue by Myron. The right? The right was a gnarled, curled thing. A hideous misshapen item, twisted at a young age with white-hot tongs. The nose was fine but, though his eyesight was more than adequate, those orbs were hard  to look at, pale and watery and with virtually no iris visible – the  result of having spent the first eleven years in a dark closet. The lips were thin, the bottom one jagged and mangled from all the biting where it had sobbed its woes into the ragged flesh, helping to endure the endless beatings.

And its skin… its skin so pale as to be almost translucent. The only colour to it was the veins criss-crossing that sallow parchment that coated its bones.

It was hideous.

He knew that, of course; knew he was unsightly and monstrous in the eyes of the world. On the odd occasions when Gaius was required to step outside the sumptuous villa and into the heart of the eternal city, no matter how much he kept to his litter and the four Numidian slaves, nor how much he played on the fact that he had been elected a pontiff this season and could cover his misshapen body and unsightly head with the white toga, the public would inevitably catch sight of him. Children would scream and women would hustle their young ones away from this despicable creature. Sometimes he wondered what he would have looked like if he’d been left to grow up like a normal boy. After all, all his deformities had been thrust upon him…

There it was again – that strange deep, guttural grating noise that had first caused him to stop as he passed through the atrium. How odd. Was one of his neighbours having works done at their domus at this time of night?

He spat reflexively at the biter taste of a name on his tongue and moved around to another side of the small pool, waiting until the ripples dwindled to look down into its damning depths.

Lucius Attius Flaccus. His father. If ever a man had needed another father, it was this poor, deformed soul. But he’d been stuck with Lucius, husband of Cornelia. He’d been a swine from the first day Caius remembered, and likely long before then. He had, after all, killed his wife when their baby boy was not quite two years old, flying into a rage over some imagined insult and beating her to death with a bust of his illustrious grandfather, smashing her skull to a pulp so that the brains had to be cleaned from every surface in the room. The bust had been sent to be re-chiselled, because he’d hit her so hard that he’d shattered the marble nose.

His mother. The only person who could have protected him from a monster of a father. None of the slaves would help, not that many lasted more than a season before the brutal beatings robbed them of their lives.

There was that odd grinding noise again, like the quern stones of Eurysaces’ bakery down the road. It really was odd. It must be coming from the direction of the Esquiline because he’d moved that way around the pool, and this time the sound was louder. Whoever it was was clearly most inconsiderate.

Outside, he could hear the traditional rites of the Lemuria – the exorcism of the restless dead from the homes of good Romans with prayers and offerings of beans – being carried out in other houses. But because no good Roman could observe a religious practice without the appropriate amount of debauchery, this hallowed rite was too often carried out in haste to make way for a lavish feast and possible an orgy with dancing girls, roasting oxen, prostitutes at a finger’s beckon and all the lascivious depth of Roman nobility!

Ha! Roman nobility! Caius’ father had been considered the very epitome of Roman nobility, even  as the neighbours were watching buckets of his wife’s brains being ferried outside and slopped into the drains.

Well Caius had carried out his own rite of exorcism three years gone, and had felt untroubled ever since. Certainly, he’d felt no urge to don a silly costume and start an orgy…

The grating again! Somehow it seemed even louder than the sounds of Rutilius’ debauched get-together next door.

The moon began to insist itself upon him in the dark reflection of his ruined face, and Caius moved to the third side of the impluvium pool to move out of its blinding silver light. His seething dark heart, born of so many years of imprisonment and stygian gloom, filled with spite as he remembered that night of the casting out.

The villa owners of Rome waved their expensive Arabian incense and spoke words to the counsellor Gods, offering beans and gold – for beans alone seemed so Plebeian to some of these people. They spoke the words by rote and offered set prayers handed to them on scraps of vellum. Not one of them had met the lemures – the spirits of the restless – who supposedly haunted their houses. And so they went about it as a common ritual.

Caius had had to do it for real. His lemure had been living, breathing and swinging knotted ropes. His father had been all too real. And he had not used beans to exorcise him.

One night, lurking in his dark alcove, Caius had finally summoned up the strength to do something about his predicament. Eleven years of torture had been enough. He had snapped. He had gone insane, yet was lucid enough to recognise the fact. He had scraped away the mortar and removed a brick from the wall of his cellar-prison, and when the slave had come to deliver his drab, pale dinner, he had hit the poor bastard with the brick, stoving in his skull. It was a low thing to do. The slave had really deserved saving, not a painful murder. But some things had to be done, and he had known the slave would not help him and risk offending his master. A slave rarely lasted six months in this villa.

Caius had emerged from the cellar with one single goal in mind. He’d found his father whipping a whore to death in his office. Caius cared not for the whore, of course, but the knowledge that his father was meting out yet more arbitrary agony had snapped his already fraying senses, and he’d had pulled an unlit torch from the wall, walked into the room, and begun the business of turning his father into little more than a piece of ragged meat.

He had not stopped the beating until his father was utterly unrecognisable. There was not an inch of skin left unmarked, and the head had gone, now just a wet mess of pink and white splayed across the bed. The whore had died in the process, catching many of the blows meant for her abuser. Caius had slowly returned to his senses, and had then begun the business of tidying up, with neither remorse nor regret tainting his heart.

Curiously, it had been the day of the Lemuria festival that day too, and apart from the slave assigned to feed and muck out Caius the villa was empty of staff, leaving the master of the house alone to abuse his whore unobserved. By the time the house’s major domo and the staff had returned just before First Watch the next morning, Caius had buried the smashed, pulped remains of his father and the broken whore under the flagstones of this very atrium, depositing the excess soil in the peristyle garden, disposing of the blood-and-brain-soaked upholstery in one of the ubiquitous piles of trash in the alley beside the domus. The room had been cleaned and dried and bore no sign of the bloody violence that had been perpetrated there, by a master against his whore or by a son against his father. The broken slave had gone into the ground with them, too, and it had been a work of supreme irritation putting the brick back into the cellar wall and cramming the powdered mortar around it, and then locking the cellar door from the inside and pushing the key back beneath it.

He had been found. He had been looked after. For three weeks the city was on alert, looking for the missing Lucius Attius Flaccus. But he had gone. Many said he had eloped with a whore, but those who knew Lucius and his dark tendencies doubted this. Caius had been consoled. His last living relative had gone and while he would inherit the domus, they commiserated, it would obviously be no replacement for a father. Idiots. If only they’d known.

Over the next half year, Caius had set his seal on his ownership of the Domus Attius. He became the master of his demesne. He treated his servants and slaves well, and they gradually overcame their fear of his physical deformities to accept him as a master with a great deal more respect than they’d shown his father.

There was that damned noise again! People had no consideration during a festival. It was almost certainly late night work in the bakery. He would have such a word with Eurysaces tomorrow! The jumped-up little ex-slave clearly did not know his boundaries.

Caius had changed things in the domus. He would not live in the room where his father had abused and murdered whores. He would not work in that office. The house had to be cleaned and redecorated.

But the most important change had been here in this very atrium.

For he would not have a statue of his despicable father glowering at him as he passed, standing so close to the secret burial place of the man it depicted. For Lucius had commissioned a life-sized replica of himself the year before he died, and it had stood proudly at the side of the atrium, watching as his son buried his mortal remains beneath the flags.

The statue had gone straight away, but not permanently. One never wasted good marble, after all. In response to a lifetime of abuse by the bastard, Caius had commissioned one of the better young artists of this generation to re-carve the statue into a smaller, more delicate one of Nemesis – the goddess of rightful vengeance.

He turned and smiled at Nemesis. It had been three years since he had buried the bodies and had that form reshaped. Three bodies, three years. Three years this very night, in fact.

His brow folded into a frown. There was something distinctly odd about the statue tonight. Perhaps it was his imagination, fuelled by the dancing lamplight? No, there was definitely something odd. For Nemesis was not a smiling goddess. And the somehow twisted face of the statue was grinning – a maniacal rictus that could not in any way be described as happy. Her eyes seemed tiny and set deep in a harsh face. This Nemesis was, frankly, hideous. As hideous as he himself.

He realised far too late where he had seen those features before.

The whore!

The whore his father had been abusing. The whore he had inadvertently – yet uncaringly – beaten to death as collateral in his father’s demise. The whore who was now the statue. The whore who was now Nemesis!

The marble hand closed around his throat.

Caius felt a panic the like of which he’d never before experienced. Only briefly, though. For that cold, unyielding marble hand gripped his windpipe and jerked him forward so that his head cracked against the grinning face. He chipped one marble tooth and three real ones.

He screamed.

There was no one around tonight. He always allowed the staff festival nights to themselves. And with the sheer noise emanating from other villas, no one heard or cared. He screamed and screamed, the shrieking descending first to a gurgle and then to a moan as the marble grip smashed his face into the whore’s horrifying visage again… and again… and again.

Finally, his body twitching in what he knew to be its death throes, Caius realised the statue had let go, and he had collapsed to the ground. His remaining eye stared up in blind, panicked confusion at the statue that had killed him. Once more it had revert to its divine polished glory. It was no longer the whore his father had abused and he had beaten to death. It was Nemesis, the lady of righteous vengeance, staring down at the bloody, dying heap of her murderer.

He felt cold. In the morning, the slaves would find him again, like they had three years earlier. But this time, he would be dead, having apparently battered his own brains out on a statue that had once been his father.

With a sigh, Caius Attius Flaccus expired atop the very slab that covered his erstwhile victims.

To some extent, it was a relief.

Happy Halloween, everyone (or if you’re an ancient Roman and it’s March, Happy Lemuria!)

Written by SJAT

October 15, 2018 at 6:57 am

History at the ends of the Earth

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Something I discussed last night with a friend led me to posting this today. This is my list of the top 10 places I would give a kidney to visit, but will almost certainly never do so. How many of these are on your list?

ANI

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Nestled in the uplands on the eastern border of Turkey this early medieval Armenian city is a sprawling plateau of glorious ruins, from ancient churches to city walls and more. Though it is now part of a struggle for preservation and aid, its position led to decades of Turkey and Armenia both blaming one another for the site’s increasing dilapidation while doing nothing to halt it. Without taking sides, I find it saddening that unless change is effected quickly there might not be much of this world-class sight to visit by the time I get the chance.

SHAHARA

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Quite apart from being in war-torn Yemen, Shahara with its astounding ancient bridge and buildings lie outside the sphere of the stuff I write, so I will be unlikely to find a reason to get there. And of course my Acrophobia might be an issue too….

RATIARIA

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One of the saddest stories I have followed over the last few decades, Colonia Ulpia Ratiaria was a largely untouched Roman city buried beneath the earth in Bulgaria. But due to corruption and greed and simple poverty and desperation, since the country’s emergence into freedom, it has been systematically ravaged and looted, even to the extent of using JCBs and bulldozers. Now under a desperate push for preservation, what is left is a shadow of what was. I would have loved to have visited it decades ago, and there might be something still to see when I eventually get there.

SABRATHA

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One of several mind-blowing sites in Libya (along with Leptis Magna), these Roman cities are some of the most incredible of all ancient remains, and quite rightly are counted some of the world’s most important sites. Miraculously over the recent decades they have largely survived harm, largely through the dedication of locals, but with Libya remaining a difficult place to visit, reaching them seems unlikely.

AI KHANOUM

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Few places are more inaccessible for us than the ruins of Alexandria on the Oxus, in the mountains of Afghanistan. And even if we were freer to visit such a place (and that likelihood is ever increasing, of course), sadly, Ai Khanoum fell foul of some dreadful bombing a few years back that has left large tracks of it utterly obliterated.

NISIBIS

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A Roman legionary fortress, grand city and centre of the early Christian church, Nusaybin contains remains both civil and military spanning more than half a millennium, yet some lie in Turkey, some in Syria and some, totally inaccessibly, in the barbed wire no-man’s land between the two. Visiting the place would be problematic to say the least.

CALDER ABBEY

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This one is pretty much on me, I have to say. The picturesque ruins of Calder abbey in Cumbria have been on my must visit list for over a decade, since I planned on visiting all Britain’s monastic houses. But they are on private land, and part of a big house’s grounds. I’ve got a poor distant photo of them. I have occasionally contemplated seeking permission to visit, but since we only get over there on at least a night away, it has thus far been too complex to plan, and so I’ve never yet been there. Perhaps next time…

LESHAN

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Those of you who know me know my leanings towards Buddhism, and I would love to visit the Buddha of Leshan in China not only because of what it is, but because of the air of mystery and power surrounding the monument. But China is sadly so far off my radar every year makes this less unlikely.

WEWELSBURG

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The fortress of Himmler’s SS occult obsession in deepest Germany has a weirdly dark fascination for me. Medieval fortress, Renaissance chateau and 20th century pit of evil, it has so many levels of interest, but being so far into Germany it is unlikely I will get there any time soon, since I naturally tend to spend my money heading to places that have a bearing on what I write and research. Still, I would be fascinated to prowl the corridors of this place.

CHURCH OF ST SYMEON

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In Syria, the Byzantine church of my favourite saint remains one of the most beautiful and evocative ancient ruins in the world, despite having been repeatedly occupied and damaged in wars right up to this very year. The saint’s famous column has been a victim to this ruination, as has much of the structure.  And Syria remains a difficult place to visit, especially this church in a critical area that keeps being used as a fortress by one side or another. My chances of seeing this amazing site are tiny.

So that’s it. 10 places I will probably never get to, but wish I could.

Written by SJAT

October 7, 2018 at 7:50 pm

Posted in Travel

Welcome to the Palladium

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Ever heard of the Palladium? No, not the theatre, nor the metal. The ancient Palladium, I mean. Well oddly it’s cropped up twice recently for me, after never previously knowing anything of it. Firstly, when I was writing the H360 book A Song of War, and then more recently in my biography of Commodus (which will be out in April – nudges you towards the pre-order button.)

So what was the Palladium? Well, let’s go back into some mythology to find it. You’ve heard of Athena, right? Greek goddess, connected with Athens and owls, worshipped in Rome as Minerva, sprouted from the head of Zeus like a pretty and rather powerful boil? Well did you know that she was raised by the sea god Triton and raised alongside Triton’s daughter like a sister. That sister-friend was called Pallas, and one day when soft play went wrong, Athena accidentally killed Pallas. In her grief, she made a divine wooden likeness of Pallas. This, then, was the Palladium. But how does it fit into my tales?

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Cassandra clinging to the Palladium in the temple in Troy (a painting in Pompeii)

Well, ‘A Song of War’ was the H360 tale of the fall of Troy, and it so happened that the Palladium fell from the heavens and landed in Troy, where it was worshipped, stored in the temple of Athena. So when we wrote of the sack and the fall of Troy, it inevitably involved researching  some of the greatest treasures and sacred objects of the city. As legend would have it, the Palladium survives the fall of Troy. In our tale, the team told of Odysseus and Diomedes’ theft of the Palladium (or Palladion in Greek.) So I read of this most reverent wooden statue in the terms of Vicky Alvear Shecter’s amazing tale of Odysseus. So the Palladium leaves Troy with the great intuitive Greek and his lion-skin-clad mate. But somehow it leaves the city after the war, and not via Odysseus, since he heads back to Ithaka in order to drink some Ouzo and relax as he imports washing machines cheap from Albania.

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Diomedes and Odysseus stealing the Palladium (from the Louvre)

Now here the tales seem to peter out. Somehow the Palladium leaves Troy, though it doesn’t seem to be in the hands of Odysseus. It perhaps left with Diomedes, who is recorded as ending up in Italy, or perhaps with Aeneas somehow. However it went, the next time it appears in the Historical/Mythological record is in Rome. Exactly how it stops being a Graeco-Trojan religious focus and becomes Roman is something of a mystery, but then the Romans were ever masters of claiming older valuable things as their own, a bit like Melania… I personally blame Virgil, who seems intent on making Troy Rome’s ancestor at any expense. Either way, the Palladium eventually ends up in the Temple of Vesta in Rome, where it is one of the city’s most sacred relics. There it is kept inviolable and hidden, away from the masses.

Louvre Palladium

Nike and a warrior either side of a pillar topped by the Palladium (in the Louvre)

And this is where, for me, it turns up a second time in my research. I have just finished writing Commodus, my second book for Orion, in which I re-examine that infamous emperor in a new light, and lo and behold but what should suddenly crop up in my research but the Palladium!

Commodus

Commodus as Hercules (in the Capitoline Museum)

I shall try and avoid spoilers of course, but suffice it to say there is, during that story, a fire in Rome. Let’s face it, Rome burns every ten minutes. Fires in ancient Rome are more common than non-sequiturs in a Richard Ayoade monologue or failures in Anglo-American government. This particular fire threatens the forum and the Palatine, and in the process catches and incinerates the temple of Vesta and the house of the Vestals. I give you my source material, the ever-entertaining Herodion:

“1.14.4 After consuming the temple and the entire sacred precinct, the fire swept on to destroy a large part of the city, including its most beautiful buildings. When the temple of Vesta went up in flames, the image of Pallas Athena was exposed to public view – that statue which the Romans worship and keep hidden, the one brought from Troy, as the story goes. Now, for the first time since its journey from Troy to Italy, the statue was seen by men of our time.

1.14.5 For the Vestal Virgins snatched up the image and carried it along the Sacred Way to the imperial palace.”

Rome

Rome burns

So there you have it. I wrote a tale set 1600 years BC in Anatolian Greece and it involved the Palladium. Then I wrote a tale set in the late 2nd century AD, almost two millennia later and half a known world away, and lo and behold there again is the Palladium.

Interestingly, I have since found a reference that Constantine (about whom I am also writing with the indomitable Gordon Doherty), when he founded the new Rome, moved the Palladium to Constantinople where he buried it below his column (hur, hur, hur – said in a Beavis and Butthead voice).

The Palladium, then. A battered wooden image of Pallas fashioned by a god, which seems fated to crop up in what I write. Bet you’ll remember it now when next it crops up.

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One day I’ll be here, receiving an award…. 😉

 

 

Written by SJAT

September 15, 2018 at 8:59 am

Marik’s Way by Nick Brown

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Marik

As a Roman fiction author who detoured into the world of fantasy myself, and a long-term reader and lover of both Historical fiction and Fantasy, I am always on the lookout for those authors who do the same. If a writer is good in either of those genres, there is a good chance they will hit the sweet spot in the other too. I am, for instance, waiting for Angus Donald’s foray into a Chinese-style fantasy, so much did I love his Outlaw books. And then there’s Nick Brown.

It doesn’t take much to discover how much I value Nick’s writing. Just scroll down my reviews at the side and you’ll find my high opinion of all his Agent of Rome books. I was sad to see that he was no longer working on Corbulo’s tales, but upon talking to him, was also intrigued and fascinated to learn that he too was working on a fantasy novel. In fact, in terms of disclosure, Nick and I have become friends, and thus I will admit that I managed to read a copy of Marik’s Way long before release. Rest assured that I retain objectivity, even when I gush. Nick’s writing has formed some of my absolute favourite Roman books of recent years.

Marik’s Way is the start of a new adventure for Nick Brown. I believe it to be the beginning of a series of novels, rather than a one off, which sits well with me, as I’d hate to know that there would be no more. The novel is, in short, as classy as any of his Roman work. What, for me, it loses in lacking the deep world of Roman history and my love thereof, it gains in granting the author the freedom to become truly creative. The book is written with as much skilled prose and engaging conversation, as colourful characters and tense action as his Agent of Rome series, but additionally, it has given him the opportunity to build a world completely from the ground up. As a former (ish!) role-playing gamer, I am familiar with the process of fantasy world building, and unless the creator is thorough and has an eye for what will grab a reader that world will fail to engage. The fact that I found myself making notes and wanting to know more of places, concepts and people that gained a mere mention is a fantastic sign.

Marik is an interesting character in himself. Very unlike Cassius Corbulo, too. Where Corbulo was a bright young man who had been somewhat forced into activity from a would-be hedonistic lifestyle and treated folk with the disdain of the Roman patrician classes, Marik is a rough, if intelligent, former soldier, with a somewhat corroded sense of right and wrong, a pragmatic approach and a tendency to low cunning. He is a hero, for sure, but only in that he stops four paces short of being an anti-hero, and could easily become a villain with just a few slips. My kind of character, in short. In fact, for some time I struggled with liking him as a person, but I pushed on, for some of the greatest of literature’s characters have come across at first as unbearable (Sherlock Holmes, for example.) Marik becomes gradually more likeable, more understandable, and more redeemed as the book progresses, though he never loses the edge that makes you suspect he could change if he felt the need.

The tale comes to some extent in three parts, or at least that was how I found it. An introduction, with Marik wandering and poor, seeking a path and a way to live, struggling with bad work and worse people. This was an exploration of Marik and his world. Then we had a journey, which I might be tempted to liken to a fantasy Heart of Darkness. This led to epiphanies and a massive action extravaganza that occupied at least the last third of the book. That last section? Well let me tell you I relived the excitement of The Wild Geese and Zulu in a fantasy setting. It was a fabulous read that kept me turning the pages again and again.

In short, this book should appeal to lovers of fantasy, but probably also historical fiction. Marik’s Way is a brave departure from form, but a very worthwhile one, and I encourage everyone to go grab this novel at the earliest convenience.

🙂

Written by SJAT

August 23, 2018 at 11:58 pm

Posted in Fantasy

Tagged with , , , , , , ,