Scott Oden Is The Man

Recently Scott Oden received a glowing review for his work here: http://www.thecimmerian.com/?p=646

This is pretty awesome stuff, so if you haven't done so check out what this reviewer had to say about works like Memnon and Men of Bronze. Congrats, Scott!

Herodotus In Film

I'm always on the look out for material that can help me understand the Ancient Hellenes better. I feel like there's never enough. Yet when I want more information I usually turn to books or articles, since TV and movies tend not to be overly accurate or helpful. I was pleasantly surprised however when I watched the PBS special Greeks: Crucible of Civilization Special Edition. This nearly three hour documentary covers the amazingly rich history of Ancient Athens from the 6th century BC until the fall of the polis, using actors and a host of prominent historians to walk us through the events of the time. Among the more notable historians that appear in this film are Barry Strauss, Victor Davis Hanson and Paul Cartledge, all names that should be familiar to people studying Ancient Greece. These men lend a sense of legitimacy to the documentary that a lot of similar films lack. Yet what really sets this work apart is the director's ability to take the viewer back through time, showing us a glimpse of what life might have been like for men like Themistocles and Pericles.

Instead of offering cheesy acting or dialogue, the director hired professional actors and even real local specialists to simply act out different events. He also had cinematic shots of the modern city of Athens subtly painted over to make it look like more archaic, so when the shots appear on screen it's like you're seeing the city as it might might have been thousands of years ago. Especially impressive is the aversion of studio-made sets. When the film portrays men knocking olives out of trees, you know that those are real olive trees in the Attica countryside. When you see a spectacular shot of a trireme, you're looking at a real ship (the one built a few years ago by scholors). No expense is spared, not corners cut...but that's not to say the film is above reproach.

Despite its name, the documentary rarely focuses on any city-state but Athens, and almost never mentions men or battles that don't have anything to do with it. The oversight of events like Thermopylae is especially cringe worthy. Yet if you opt to listen to the Director's Commentary, the director does mention that he chose to have the film revolve around only a few select men (all Athenian), so a piece about Leonidas and his accomplishments would admittedly be akward. Still, it would have been better to change the documentary's name to Ancient Athens: Crucible of Civilization, thus making the absence of certain battles and historical figures less conspicuous.

This misnomer can be forgiven though once you realize the director's complete commitment to making this film as good as possible. Not only did he use professional actors and real locations, he also hired an orchestra to make a stirring and riveting soundtrack. This beautifully compliments the story telling in its richness and detail, making the experience of watching the film even more pleasant. So if you love Ancient Athens and want to see a detailed and complete picture of the early years of the polis, rent or buy this DVD. And hey: it's hosted by Liam Neelson. What more could you ask?

Book List & Random Thoughts

I often find useful information for my novel in the most random of places. Like the time I was reading an article on proper napkin etiquette and learned that the Spartans were one of the first on record to use napkins (the Spartans!) These notorious warriors would actually roll a ball of clay around their palms to clean their hands after they ate. This useful tidbit was from a tea magazine, probably the last place you would think to find an article that involved the rough and tough Laconians. There's also the time I was reading a fashion magazine and learned that the black kohl eyeliner made famous by the Egyptians was less about fashion and more about reducing the harsh glare of the desert sun.

Yet even while I stumble upon awesome bits of information, I still have an ever-growing collection of books, Internet articles and DVDs stashed in my room that help me try to understand the world in which the ancient Hellenes and Persians lived in. A part of me is very proud of the fact that I have over 40 books, the other suspects true researchers would yawn at the lowly double digits. In any case, here's a list of the works I have (non-fiction and fiction), with stars for ones I find especially helpful or interesting and would recommend to people.

1) Broad, William. The Oracle: Ancient Delphi And The Science Behind Its Lost Secrets
2) Burket, Walter. Greek Religion
3) Cartledge, Paul. Thermopylae: The Battle That Changed The World
4) Cartledge, Paul. Sparta & Laconia: A Regional History 1300-362 BC ***
5) Cartledge, Paul. Spartan Reflections
6) Cartledge, Paul. The Spartans: The World of The Warrior-Heroes of Ancient Greece***
7) Cassin-Scott, Jack. The Greek & Persian Wars 500-323 BC
8) Connolly, Peter & Dodge, Hazel. The Ancient City: Life in Classical Athens & Rome
9) Corenenko, Dr. EV. The Scythians
10) Curtis, John E. & Tallis, Nigel. Forgotten Empire: The World of Ancient Persia ***
11) Durando, Furio. Ancient Greece: The Dawn of The Western World
12) Durant, Will: The Life of Greece
13) Flaceliere, Robert. Daily Life In Greece At The Time of Pericles ***
14) Garland, Robert. Introducing New Gods: The Politics of Athenian Religion
15)Grant, Michael. The Rise of The Greeks
16) Green, Peter. The Greco-Persian Wars
17) Hanson, Victor Davis. A War Like No Other ***
18) Handson, Victor Davis. Hoplites: The Classical Greek Battle Experience
19) Handson, Vicotr Davis. The Western Way of War
20) Herodotus. The History ***
21) Holland, Tom. Persian Fire ***
22) Homer. The Illiad ***
23) Homer. The Odyssey ***
24) Houston, Mary G. Ancient Egyptian, Mesopotamian & Persian Costume
25) Hughes, Bettany. Helen of Troy: Goddess, Princess, Whore
26)Lendon, J.E. Soldiers & Ghosts: A History of Battle In Classical Antiquity
27) Martin, Jon Edward. In Kithairon's Shadow: A Novel of Ancient Greece & The Persian War
28) Mayor, Adrienne. Greek Fire, Poison Arrows & Scorpion Bombs: Biological & Chemical Warfare in The Ancient Worlds
29) Mikalson, Jon D. Herodotus & Relgion In The Persian Wars
30) Miller, Stephen. Arete: Greek Sports From Ancient Sources
31) Mitchell, Stephen. Gilgamesh ***
32)Nelson, Eric PhD. & Susan K. PhD. The Complete Idiot's Guide To Ancient Greece ***
33) Nicastro, Nicholas. The Isle of Stone
34) Oden, Scott. Memnon ***
35) Oden, Scott. Men of Bronze ***
36) Oppenheim, A. Leo. Ancient Mesopotamia: Portrait of a Dead Civilization
37) Ostler, Nicholas. Empires of The World: A Language History of The World ***
38) Parin d'Aulain, Ingris & Edar. Daulaire's Book of Greek Myths ***
39) Plutarch. On Sparta ***
40) Pressfield, Steven. Gates of Fire ***
41) Pressfield, Steven. Tides of War
42) Sekunda, Nicholas. The Spartan Army ***
43) Sekunda, Nicholas. The Persian Army 560-330 BC ***
44) Sekunda, Nicholas. The Ancient Greeks
45)Strauss, Barry. The Battle of Salamis: The Naval Encounter That Saved Greece-and Western Civilization ***
46)Thompson, Dorothy Burr & Grisworld Ralph E. (American School of Classical Studies At Athens). Garden Lore of Ancient Athens
47) Thucydides. History of The Peloponnesian War ***
48) Van Vliet, Eugenia R. Dinners With Famous Women: From Cleopatra To Indira Ghandi
49) Whitley, Michael. Sparta
50) Wolfert, Paula. The Cooking of The Eastern Mediterranean

Note that some works are missing because I don't really own them. I've been able to read Hesoid and some of Plutarch's work online, and some books simply I borrowed from libraries. I also didn't include any DVDs I have (such as the excellent documentary on Sparta by Bettany Huges) or History Channel specials. If you have a book you'd like to recommend or want to learn about, let me know. (^_^)

What To Do

I'm worried.

I am writing three books on the second Persian War (yeah, I'm over-the-top ambitious). Most of the action in my series won't take start until book two. Book one is the set-up for everything that happens in the war, which allows me to introduce characters, places, and the events that lead to the confrontation between Hellas and Persia. However...

I worry about having too many discussions and flashbacks concerning the Ionian Rebellion (which occured at least 10 years before the story takes place and is essential to understanding why Xerxes is on the march). I'm worried that all the war councils and discussions about fighting are boring. I'm worried that my characters lack dimension. I'm worried about the overall layout of the story.

Do I worry too much? Not enough? Help!

Character Profile: Themistocles

"I am not of the noble Grecian race,
I'm poor Abrotonon, and born in Thrace;
Let the Greek women scorn me, if they please,
I was the mother of Themistocles."

--Plutarch

Thems--as I like to call him for short-- is by far the most exciting yet difficult character to write about in The Owl & The Eagle. This man has so much charisma and ambition it's ridiculous. He is poisounous charm, foxy intelligence, shrewd merchant and zealous patriot. He's always looking out for number one, and doesn't care much about who he has to step on to stay at the top. He is the cult of personality, which makes it exceedingly hard to grasp who the real Themistocles is.

In my story, Thems does indeed have the bulldog face and curly hair of that famous bust you see above, but there's a twist. In my mind's eye he's a carrot-top, with orangish red hair set off by a pair of small, hazel eyes that see sharply. He's quick to laugh and most insults roll right off his back; he's used to them. He's managed to dodge ostracism and Persian arrows so little frigthens him except for failure, or worse, fading into obscurity. It seems he takes little seriously but he's always calculating and factoring things into his plans, because he is blessed with uncanny forsight. He is impatient and often blunt, which tends to rub some people the wrong way. The commoners love him though, because he is willing to converse among them and speak up for them, even though it's usually to his own benefit...

Go Tell The Readers

First, let me just say that I am a huge fan of Paul Cartledge. I devour his books on Sparta because he knows the subject better than anyone else. He's also very friendly. When I consulted him by email on a point of fact concerning King Cleomenes I, not only did he answer my question, but he made sure his answer was in-depth and personable. So naturally when I was given a copy Thermopylae: The Battle That Changed The World, I jumped for joy. Unfortunately, I should have just saved my energy.

Very little of the book is designated to the battle itself. Most of the story is a basic brush-up of the Persian wars, with only a brief description of Thermopylae followed by an an attempt to show the influence of the battle throughout history. The writing is clumsy and littered with many repetitious statements and the author’s attempt at laconic witticisms (which ended up being highly intrusive to the narration). I was especially mystified by the lack of specific detail. After all, this is the same man who brought us the brilliant and exhaustingly detailed Sparta And Lakonia: A Regional History 1300 To 362 BC. So unless he didn’t want to (or was told not to) bog down the average reader with too much logistics, I see no reason why Professor Cartledge couldn’t have included more information about Thermopylae and the events that took place there.

What's even more shocking than the lack of detail is the factual errors I encountered. For example, in one chapter Cartledge claims the falling out between Leotychidas II and his cousin Demaratus was due to the former stealing the latter’s bride. Now, unless I missed a "Historian Staff Meeting," it's actually the other way around. The story of Demaratus making off with his cousin’s betrothed is found in Herodotus, and Cartledge mentions it in his earlier work The Spartans: The World of The Warrior-Heroes of Ancient Greece. The author even claims that that Demaratus was “...showing himself a true son of his tricky father…[and]stole his bride from a distant cousin.” I was baffled by this glaring error and am not sure why it wasn’t caught, unless my suspicion that this work was rushed is correct.

Then there is the claim that the battle changed the world. That’s a fairly lofty declaration, and one that requires more proof than was presented (the argument is not a bad one, but again lack of detail hurt this book). Although Thermopylae influenced men throughout history in some way or another, without the key victories at Salamis and Plataea, the story of Thermopylae would ultimately be one of futility. I also didn’t like the attempts to compare Thermopylae and the events of 9/11 and 7/7. There is nothing to compare. The former was an open war where men chose to fight for freedom. The latter was a surprise attack where religious fanatics used innocent people to kill more innocent people with no warning. Persia wanted to rule the Hellenes, not destroy them.

I adore Paul Cartledge and don’t want to discourage people from getting his other memorable and important works on the Spartans. They’re well-researched and have some great pictures of Sparta and items found there. They also dive into fascinating detail that may help fledgling historical fiction authors get a grasp on the times and events that took place in the 480 BCE. So if you haven’t done so yet, I highly suggest buying the following works: The Spartans: The World of The Warrior-Heroes of Ancient Greece, Spartan Reflections, and The History of Spartan and Laconia.

Dieneces: Character Profile

"One of the Trachinians told him [that] such was the number of the barbarians, that when they shot forth their arrows the sun would be darkened by their multitude. Dieneces, not at all frightened at these words, but making light of the Median numbers, answered 'Our Trachinian friend brings us excellent tidings. If the Medes darken the sun, we shall have our fight in the shade.'"
--Herodotus


When I read that famous quote by Dieneces, the first thing I thought was: this guy is @#%* crazy! That's probably why when I read Gates of Fire by Steven Pressfield it didn't occur to me until near the end of the book that one of the main characters was the same guy (OK that and the fact the author didn't use the Latin spelling).

While everyone has portrayed Dieneces as a handsome prince or a noble and couragous soldier, my potrayal is totally different. To me, this guy is the slightly-crazed marine that storms the beach screaming, the soldier who obeys orders but has to be kept on a tight leash becauase he's a few cans short of a six pack!

In my mind Dieneces is just short of his middle years. He has thick black cords of hair bound by iron rings that arch down his back. He's muscled, but short and bow-legged and not pretty of face. He sports a necklace of human teeth, a collection from helots he's hunted down and killed over the years. He's a wise ass who loves to push every button of every one of his commanders, save the Agiad king whom he likes and respects. He's not exactly evil but he's amoral. His background is one of terrible abuse by his elders, which causes him to seek out death in battle because to him things can't get much worse. In his warped mind only one person every loved or respected him, but that person was exiled and he's been even more unstable ever since...

Sperthius Part 1

Part 1 of a new chapter from The Owl & The Eagle, told from the POV of Sperthius, a soldier known to his peers as The Boar of Sparta. The novel is progressing along nicely btw, with me taking notes and editing and adding and subtracting, etc. Hopefully one day an agent/editor/publisher will stumble upon this blog and think: Hey! We should ask this girl to send us a full transcript...

Parnon Mountains, Sparta
Summer, 481 BC(E)

The forest air was permeated with the sickly stench of opened bowels.

“You found him like this?” “Yes sir,” said the old soldier. "We were patrolling the Serpent Road and saw him.” “A boar,” the young soldier beside him insisted. "The animal, I mean." He was barely out of the barracks if a day, but he spoke with all the assurance of a seasoned war veteran. Sperthius did not have to see the face beneath the bronze helmet to know those features were smooth of scars. At near fifty the Boar of Sparta was older than either man and had seen more battles, as the puckered skin beneath his scarlet tunic and cloak could attest. Behind them a small cluster helots with their masters' heavy bronze shields strapped to their backs stood silently in the shadow of a large twisted oak, warily eyeing the underbrush around them for wild animals. “My Inspirer once hunted a beast just as big and twice as mean," said Orestes, the smooth-faced soldier. His dark hair was neatly divided into cords, and his bronze cuirass was undented and polished to a shine. "It almost did him in, but Aristodemus gouged its eyes out with his own hands.” Your Inspirer is full of shit, Sperthius thought as he frowned over the corpse. The day had barely begun, but the summer sun already threatened to be burning hot. Even with the shady wood above their heads they would have to move the body fast. Above, birds chirped and sang. They were purched in a dense cluster of fir and pine, hungry for the worms that had already begun to gnaw at the dead man's extremities. It seems cruel that birds should sing on a day like this. But Sperthius had long since learned that life was nothing if not cruel.

“Did you inspect the body at all?” The old solider hitched wide shoulders beneath his cloak, a ragtag cloth that like his knotted hair had more gray than red in it. Derkylidas was a veteran of a dozen or so campagins against Argos and Athens over the years, and blood and death were nothing new to him. His cuirass was dented and dull from use. “You're our commander. You should inspect it first.” It was the right answer, and so Sperthius merely nodded as he bent down to inspect the body.

He had been watching a foot race in the gymnasium when Orestes' helot came sprinting up, pushing his way through the crowd to tell him news of a fallen messenger found alone on the Serpant Road. "My master says it's not a Dweller," the boy announced too loudly, rubbing the back of his head where angry soldiers had cuffed him for trying to push them aside. Sperthius had snapped at him not to yell that out--there was no reason to draw attention to it--but it was too late. Just as he started to order one of his subordinates to take a small squad and investigate, Prince Cleombrotus turned around from where he was standing with the other generals and barked at Sperthius to see to it himself. "And don't go wasting the new recruits' time! They have too much training to do." One did not refuse a polemarch, and certainly not an Agiad prince, so Sperthius alone had followed the anxious helot out of Kynosoura, heading east then north, towards the Serpant Road.


The dead man was face down, sprinkled with fallen pine needles and splotches of speckled bird droppings. The short woolen cloak that fanned out over the narrow dirt path was so crusted with dried blood it was hard to tell what color it had been. The tunic beneath was by turns blackish red and gray, no doubt once a blinding white. Boots thin and travel stained but clearly yellow covered the now stiff feet. Oddly, the dead man wore some sort of hood the same color as his boots, the end tapering down his neck. Bulis had seen nothing like it. An outsider? That made no sense. Only Dwellers were allowed to travel outside of Laconia freely, and even then secret paths like the Serpant Road were not revealed to them. Only a Spartiate could know of it. Sperthius scratched at his gray-shot beard and tounged the gap where his two front teeth had been. If he was an outsider...no. Best not jump to conclusions.

Sperthius motioned to the cowering helots. "Get over here!" Timidly, two of the older slaves came foward. "Turn him over." One helot walked around the body while adjusting the dog-skinned cap on his shaggy brown head nervously, then bent down to support the back of the dead man’s neck while the other grabbed his feet. Together they turned him over as they would turn meat on a spit, the man's juices leaking onto to the ground along with loose pine needles. The stench was suddenly even more nauseating as the slaves set the corpse on its back; unbidden tears welled in Sperthius’s eyes. He blinked them away and forced himself to look. The dead man's gray and already sunken face was not familiar. The tear the boar made was terrible, slicing up through the man's bowels and towards his sternum, a bloody mess of blackish blue and red and yellow intestine. The helot with the cap retched into a cluster of nearby bushes while the other wailed. "Shut up or I'll shut you up!" Derkylidas snapped, making a threatening gesture with his spear. "And if you get any vomit on my shield Clubfoot, I'll kill you myself!" The helot shrank back, terrified. The Boar of Sparta ignored them as he studied the corpse.

Sperthius had been long in the war dance. He had seen various injuries, opened veins and deep gouges from spear points, ugly gashes from shield rims and nasty piercings from a sword's edge. But the heavy bronze armor Spartans wore to battle rarely failed to prevent the more mortal wounds. It took a skilled warrior to know where and how to strike, and none were as skilled as a Spartiate. Still, he had seen this kind of injury before in Laconia. Men grew careless when it came to the hunt, as his own Inspirer, an ugly brute called One Thumb had learned one muggy summer's day. A day like today. Wild boar attacks were more common in the Taygetos foothills, but some beasts still managed to hide in Gaia's green and golden hues here in the northern edge of the Parnon mountain chain. The fact that the messenger had not seen his attacker until it was too late was not surprising. His being on a secret road that was so narrow and winding it was more of a dirt track was. A herald coming from the North along a road only known by free men. Why?

Sperthius’ eyes moved to the messengers left hand, where something gleamed dully in the morning light. A blood-smeared dagger was still clutched tight in a fist. The sight of the dagger tickled his memory, but not becausae of One Thumb. He looks like Cleomenes the day I found him, he thought with a chill. That had been after they dragged the Mad King back from Sellasia, cursing and screaming and attacking people with his staff of office. The ephors had ordered him to be put in stocks to keep himself from hurting anyone, and ordered a handful of men to take turns watching him, including the Boar of Sparta. When Sperthius went to check on the king later that night he had found him --or rather of his disembowled body-- slumped on the floor of the Agiad mansion, the helot who had freed him dead beside the king. The memory of that gruesome sight was ten years old, yet seemed as fresh as yesterday. This messenger died a far less gruesome death, Sperthius reflected as he leaned forward to try and pry the knife out of the man's hand. And quicker. One Thumb had died quickly too, albeit in terrible pain. I have no bloodless memories. But then, few Spartans did.

When the body refused to yield the weapon Sperthius began to mutter under his breath. “You’re dead you stubborn bastard, let go!” Finally the corpse obeyed. Sperthius let the hand fall back onto the ground and held out the dagger for somebody to take. “Check that for a signet.” “Sir?” Orestes pointed. “There’s something there."

A square-shaped item was peeking beneath one stained fold of the cloak. Sperthius frowned and carefully pulled it out, holding it up to a ray of light that managed to break through the dense phalanx of pine needles above them. It was a block of wood, thickly coated in wax. Sperthius turned it over in his hands. There was nothing on it. No symbols or writing that he could see. He began to grow frustrated. As a soldier he had no patience for riddles. He flung the wood at the younger soldier. "Here!" Orestes managed to catch it in mid-air, moving fast despite his cuirass. It was obvious by the tilt of his head the youth was trying to face dowwind, though there was little wind this morning. Sperthius did not chide him for it; even he had to admit the smell was bad. "Did you find anything?" he asked the old soldier. "No, Sir. No marks on the dagger." "I see."

Sperthius flicked back his cloak and searched through the messenger's strange clothes, ignoring the blood and bits of gore on his hands and earth-colored tunic as he searched for something that would identify the man. Spartans wore wooden tags in battle to help identify the fallen, Athenians had shields that were specific to their families, Corinthians had signet rings, and messengers usually had the emblem of their city somewhere on their person. This man had nothing. Nothing except a blank tablet of wax and a dagger.

Sperthius sat back on his heels, at a total loss as to what it could mean. Bulis would understand. His Hearer had a talent for puzzling out these kinds of things. Again he tounged the fleshy bit of exposed gum where his upper two teeth had been. A lone messenger. No escorts. No gaurds. Nothing. Maybe he's not really a messenger?

Sperthius noticed the increasingly warm air just then, and the sickly sweet odor of death growing with it. Enough thinking for now. It's time to move. He turned his head to order the helots to take the body back with him to Kynosoura when he suddenly heard birds scatter into the sky above them. The three soldiers froze, as did the helots. Sperthius knew then he had been wrong about being alone. Something is coming.

Cimon's POV (O&E)

Here's another tidbit from The Owl & The Eagle. It involves Cimon's youth faction talking about Themistocles and Persia. It's told (obviously)from Cimon's PoV. Enjoy!

Athens, 481 BC(E)

“...Themistocles learned haggling, bargaining swindling, cajoling, begging and cheating from his merchant father. He’s the type that could judge the ware of a man’s cloak and sandles and charge him accordingly for a horse,” said Callias. “He is smart.”

Cimon was tired of the endless praise for Themistocles son of Neocles. “The merchant’s son is a fool,” he told them all. “Every time he kicks a relation of the Alcmaeonidae out of Athens it isolates him from the rest of the land-owners. They run to me now.” He took a sip of wine. He refused to drink the swill known as kykeon, or the rancid Rhodian wine so popular among the upstarts. He always preferred the rare vintages from Syracuse. And they will only get rarer if Gelon can’t hold out against Carthage. That was not his biggest concern though. “I have uncles in Thrace who claim Egyptian traders are bringing more than papyrus to them. There is word their sailors are being called east. Something is happening in Persia.”

“Something is always happening in Persia,” Aminias said dismissively. He was a dark, slender youth, dripping with jewels he claimed once belonged to Croesus and sold to him by a Lydian merchant in Phalerum. “No doubt another rebellion in Caria. Or Assyria. It has nothing to do with us.” Cimon favored him with a patient smile. “Perhaps you are right, but we should prepare just the same. If there is one thing the Board of Generals is right about it is a Persian invasion. Darius’ son is not like to forget Sardis or the insult to his father.” Cimon knew the taste of that draught all too well himself. My father counted on his fellow soldiers to help him and instead they spat on him and turned their backs.

Again Aminias inturrputed. "We should align ourselves with Sparta. You should have seen them when they came up after Marathon. I saw them looking down on Athens when my family took refuge in the countryside. They were terrifying. My cousin says the Persians were defeated at Marathon but not all of them. The rest ran when they saw the Spartans.” The claim was as dubious as the man's jewelry, yet Aminias had a point. Marathon men complained about the Spartan’s tardiness, yet Laconian armies had defeated and enslaved a polis twice their size with twice the men, rid themselves of Argos for years to come and brought Tegea to heel. Rumor has it their Agiad king is undefeated in battle; a lion of war. Could he convince the Attican elders to send an embassy to Sparta? That was something to consider.

O&E: Ostracism

Hello everyone! Here is another snippet from my novel "The Owl & The Eagle." It's still a WIP but I thought it would be fun to put up. Enjoy!

Athens, 481 BC (E)

The man shook with fear and fury. "I swear I did nothing wrong!" His dark beard was neatly trimmed and his robes the best he had, a Phoenician-dyed purple himation over a muted green chiton, but his eyes burned like a thief caught with a fist full of gold. Six thousand men stood back and watched his performance. "I would never betray Athens to Aegina. Never!” He gestured wildly with one hand , the other gripping his himation to keep a coil of it from flying off his arm. Themistocles watched from the front row with the other nine members of the Board of Generals. The men of Attica were tightly packed in the city's marketplace, jostling each other to get a look at the three men standing trial before them. They had watched men splutter and make excuses for near half the day; this was the last of them, and by far the most guilty.

Themistocles began to scratch out a theta on the black terracotta shard that had been placed in his hands as soon as he entered through his demes' designated gate. The sound of each chisel was like the call of a hissing fury to most men, jarring to the ears. To Themistocles it was like the plucking of lyre’s string. He hummed as he worked.

"I demand a trial! I demand my accusers stand before all men and declare my so-called crimes to the men of Attica and the gods above and below!" The man was soundly booed. One heckler even launched something at him which bounced off his head. Themistocles guessed it was a sandal. He added a rho to the shard's surface and changed his hum to a whistle. "There's the man you should be ostracizing! Right THERE! Themistocles of Phrearrioi. He’s the one with too much power! Kick HIM out!" Themistocles looked up from his work just long enough to favor the man with a smile, then added an alpha to the arching letters with cherry vigor. "For the love of all the gods don't DO this to me!" My father died at Marathon! My great uncle sat in council with Cleisthenes, who was my ancestor. This is a slight to their memories!" "Enough!" the archon bellowed. He was a large man with large facial hair to make up for the lack of hair on his head. "Take your place among the other candidates, Thrasylaus. Then men will decide which of you villains is to be ostracized. The majority of shards with the person's name on it will be the one."

By the time the archon had finished this proclamation Themistocles had finished writing out the name, ending with a flourished sigma. Not the best hand-writing, but at least it was legible. There was no mistaking the name. Themistocles waited for the servants to make their rounds with wicker baskets and added his shard to the pile. The process took quite some time, but it was always worth it, even as the sun blazed down on their heads. It was agony for the three men standing on display, however. Themistocles knew how hard it was to stand there; he had done so twice before and narrowly escaped. He admired the two men who faced the crowd calmly, their faces dignified and betraying none of their fear. They were Boetian sympathizers, or so their enemies claimed, but their crimes were far outstripped by the Alcmaeonid, who was accused of being an Aegian sympathizer. Thrasylaus looked ready to leap through the crowd and make his escape, as if there were not 6000 men ready to stop him. The whole affair was far more entertaining than any drama. Themistocles wondered if his playwright friends were taking notes.

When the name Thrasylaus was announced as having the majority of votes, the Alcmaeonid began to shriek louder than ever. "It's the merchant's vile son! He's the one who did this! Rid Athens of him!" Ignoring him the archon explained the rules: that the man must leave Athens within 10 days, that he could not return for 10 years, and that upon his return his citizenship and property would be retained. The man stood slouched in defeat. He did manage to spare Thems a chilly look though. Don't blame me. Thank your wonderful ancestor. It was Cleisthenes who created the new 10 demes of Athens and with it the delightful concept of ostracism. No doubt it was meant to help rid the Alcmaeonid prince of his enemies. The irony of it being used on his relatives thirty years later was rather amusing. Thrasylaus did not appear to see it that way. "You'll pay for this, Themistocles!" He glared around the agora. "All of you! Athens will pay for this!" He was dragged off between Scythian guards dressed in furs despite the abhorrent heat of late summer.

Writing In The Nude

Neat header, huh? What I mean to say however, is that instead of showing a somewhat polished draft of a chapter or a paragraph, I thought I'd share with all three of my readers what my writing ideas look like in it's rawest and unadored form. Below is a copy of some ideas typed up. Some are taken directly from books with names and such changed, others are quotes I'm trying to work into the story, and one paragraph is from what I saw in a Goolge Earth picture of Athens. My point? Does your writing ever look like this? Thoughts and paragraphs and tangents all mixed on a page?

Sparta was cupped between the rugged palms of the Taygetus and Panouias mountains, the Eurotus river trickling between their knuckle bones, pooling into the palm of the valley before continuing south to spill into the sea. Ancient agora northwest of Acopolis. Trees and vegetation clung to the sides of the massive rock that stood sentry over the city, clustered around the base like gossiping women around a well. Spreading out from it, blocks of houses were stacked along the hills, cutting the city into odd geometric shapes. There steady hum of daily life was always present.

"Yes Sir." Bulis could tell he was a member of the Cryptia. They all had a look: lean and gaunt with iron-cold eyes. Spartans only smiled when they had relatives killed in battle or killed an enemy. The Cryptia always seemed to be blood-soaked and pleased at being blood-soaked. The youth gave him a salute and loped down the hill, a wolf in search of wondering sheep (Cryptia boys described in wolf metaphors).

[Piece taken from GRRM's "Feast" --]"Used to be you couldn't throw a stone in (Athens) without hitting a (Pistradid). Now there's not even wives and children left."

Not in Athens, no. It was Hippias who had led the charge against Athens ten years ago. He was dead, or so rumor claimed, but there were other Pistradid out there, and Themistocles would not rest until democracy was secure. ::Thems for attacking Sardis or not?::

Like all youths in the barracks Pauanias was enthralled by war stories, especially about the battle of champions. The winning of Tegea and the triumphant return of the bones of Orestes to Sparta was almost as good as Homer, only for some reason Sir Somebody, the only living witness to the events, refused to speak of it. "We won," he would tell the youths gruffly whenever asked for war stories. "Now leave me alone."

They had argued over the eclipse for hours now. Another eclipse will occur by the time we decide what to do, Themistocles thought impatiently as men continued to argue moot points. "Aegina, my friends? Think bigger. Think farther east. Rumors of a massive bridge spanning East and West has arrived with our shipments of timber from the Black Sea, and its said the Phonecians are re-arranging their fleet, with ships coming from Sicily. A little odd considering their ongoing war with Syracuse. I think we need to get serious about an invasion. "Listen not to this forked-tounge snake-oil merchant. Darius' son now sits the glinting golden throne of Perisa, and means to storm our shores with more ships than Hippias led to Marathon ten years ago. They've been humiliated by a far smaller power and will remember our part in the Ionian Wars. Our chances are grim; let us be frank. They won't spare us or our fine cities. The best thing to do is humor the king and give him earth and water and let him forget about us. It's his pride we need heal, a far easier thing to do then heal the scars of our beloved lands should they be scorched and pillaged by Persians." "Are you an Alcemoid or a Pistradid!" Nikandros blazed when he snatched up the Speaker's Wreath. "I did not watch my friends die around me on the Marathon plain only to bow to the Persian king at the first sign of adversity. I owe their memory better!" "As do I!" another man called out. When Cimon stood up and swagggered up to the speaker's circle he glinted with gold and silver. He looks like a damned tyrant, Themistocles thought. He even doned the Speaker's Wreath like a crown. "My father died doing what he thought was right for Athens. For all of Attica. I will not shame his memory. I shall lead troops beyond these very walls and smite the enemy in combat. "All by yourself, Achilles?" someone from the something deme shouted. A wave of laughter rose up, but the boy ignored it. "It would seem I have no choice, for I am the only man hear born with a spine." Oh, very good. Themistocles thought as the crowd broke out in angry shouts. A swaggering youth could bring the challange out in any man. And despite Militides end, there were still enough men in the audiance who admired the general. Themistocles was not one of them, but he added his voice just the same.

"All Hellenes pray for a fair fight, Dieneces. That is all one needs to win the day." "I pray for the odds to be stacked against us," the wolf laughed. So what when we win the victory will be all the better."

Marathon September 1 so have Thems visit Marathon with family and participate in events. Slaves fought at Marathon as well.

O&E Update (Again)

Progress continues on The Owl & The Eagle. Certain obstacles are being addressed and hopefully solved, like how to fit Assembly speeches into the story without dragging the plot down (speeches get tedious). Another problem being worked on is Sparta. Sparta had quite a bit of local politics that it had to deal with, and I'm trying to understand how politics was balanced with the city-state's military mentality.

In the meantime I'll have another preview ready to go soon, so stay tuned for more exciting action from The Owl & The Eagle!

The Maze That Is Writing

How many of us writers have started a plot thread only to have it go nowhere? What I mean is, you have a great idea for a character and you write and edit several chapters on it, only to realize it simply won't work in your story. I'm struggling with that now. I have all sorts of interesting events (based on real events according to Herodotus) to weave into my story but I swear tying one event to another is difficult. I believe very much that there needs to be good transition in a book, and all the events in my story take place within a few months, even though in real life they may have been spread out over a couple of years. These events can work together in a shorter time period if I simply make the transition smooth and believable (Herodotus doesn't really give time tables much anyway), but somewhere in there things get tangled. Ack! There's got to be a solution...anyone?

Stuck

I'm struggling over how to flesh out certain events in my story. They're major events in history, but because Herodotus is sketchy about chronological order at (or at least he has to go back and forth in time to tell various stories) it's hard for me to make events clear. I also keep toying with different ideas to make the characters relevant to the plot. Pausanias will not be a shining hero for quite awhile. How do I tell the story from his POV in the meantime? Is he a squire to King Leonidas and witnesses certain events? Do I need to let his POV go and focus on a different Spartan character for the first book? It's so frustrating because I've written a lot with Paus and am trying to make the plot character driven, not just about action. Does anyone else have this problem? It really stalls my writing process...

New Salamis Info!

According to the New York Times, a recent discovery was made on the famous Archimedes Palimpsest, which sold for 2 million dollars at auction in 1998. It turns out that underneath the writings of Archimedes (which were written over by a Medieval monk) there was even MORE writing--the writing of Hyperides, that is. The best part is that it may contain new information on the battle of Salamis, the famous ship battle that look place in 480 BC between the Greeks and the Persians! According to Hyperides, there were 220 Greek ships involved the the confrontation, a number that was previously sketchy.

Since I'm writing about this EXACT time, this is pretty awesome stuff. I hope they discover more. (^_^)

How To Link?

Arrggh! How do I link to other people's sites? I'm lousy at html and just want to add friends/authors. Help!

Pausanias 2: Preview

As promised another part of my story, told from the POV of Pausanias, nephew of King Leonidas and son of Prince Cleombrotus. Hopefully it's good. ^_^; This chapter takes place after the meeting of allies at the Isthmus of Corinth, but before the Spartan embassy makes its way to the Persian court (I admit the real-life timeline is changed a bit to make the story flow better). Enjoy!

Tegea 481 BC (E)

He could see the bronze of the needle glinting in the sun like a tiny, pulsing star, see Helios's rays slide along the thread as his father sewed him back together. "Most were killed," Sir Bulis reported as Prince Cleombrotus looped the thread again. Pausanias could feel the skin on his neck being pulled together with a lasso of fire. It was so painful he wanted to wretch. "Only one or two escaped. This was a planned ambush, though I don't know how the Messenians got all the way over here or could have known we were coming." "I'm going to find out," the polemarch growled, intent on his work. Around them the bodies of their attackers were strewn about the dusty road, their surprise attack quickly smashed under Spartan spears.

Prince Cleombrotus had been marching the regiment hard and fast, south and west and south again, past grassy knolls and scrappy villages, trying to make their way home to Sparta as fast as the march would allow. The polemarch had been in a helpless rage. He was furious with the Eurypontid king, you could tell in the way he muttered to himself, though for the sake of the troops he could not openly critize a commander. Cleombrotus was so caught up in thrashing the Eurypontid king in his mind he failed to see the real enemy right in front of them.

In fact, nobody payed attention to a group of Dwellers working a field with their short scythes and dusty old weel barrels, not an uncommon site in the somewhat arable land in these parts. It was Pausanias who noted their too dark skin, their overly beant posture. At first he told himself it was impossible: Messenia was stades and stades off, on the other side of the mountains. There was no way they could be all the way in Tegea. It was impossible. Yet when he looked again he saw their dog-skin caps, and then he know for certain. He stopped the march with a shout of "REBELS!" Everything happened at once, to fast to be afraid or even angry. The enemy, realizing their cover was gone, quickly amassed and charged, armed with nothing more than rusty field tools and savage courage. They knew their lives depended on surprise, the breif respite before the Spartans raised their shields and lowered the spears like some rudely-wakened hedgehog. Though they were fast, the Spartans were faster, and managed to cut down the rebels before they could do any serious harm. They were not fast enough however; more than one Spartan felt the cold bite of a rusty blade, including Pausanias, who took the worst injury. He hadn't even felt it. Only when the blood started gushing from his neck, staining his cloak an even deeper red so that it almost looked brand new did Pausanias know something was wrong. He had never never taken true wound in all the mock battles the army staged. He had been whipped, beaten and bullied like all boys in growing up in the barracks, but strangely iron was shy to his touch. Or rather the Spartites wielding it had no desire to stick him, even with blunted practice spears. Yet now suddenly the world grew red with pain, and an invisible harpy sucked the energy right out of Pausanias's body. The last thing he remembered was falling to the earth, and his fathers words coming back to him. "You all treat my son like a woman," Prince Cleombrotus had accused the royal mess one night. "He'll never learn to bleed!" Now he had. Finally the surgery ended.

"Well, that's it." His father sighed and handed off the needle and thread to his helot. "I've now stitched up every single member of my family." He straightened and cracked his back, then turned to address his servant. "Boil that needle in oil tonight and clean the instruments. If they don't shine, I'll beat you bloody." The helot nodded and backed away. It didn't matter that their own attendants had proven fast loyalty when they could have helped their bretheren; they were all the same to the youngest son of King Anaxandridas. Cleombrotus turned and thrust a finger at Pausanias's own helot, Endymion, who was holding the clay bowl full of the wine and vinegar used to cleanse the wound. "You! I don't want that wound getting infected. You change that bandage every day and keep the linen dry and clean. Sniff it every night for infection." Trembling, Endymion nodded. Cleombrotus frightened most Spartans, and the helots were terrified of him. Still, what the youth said next took real courage, especially now. " M-master? Sh-should we not b-bleed him to take the f-fever down?" Prince Cleombrotus looked both furious and baffled that the youth would dare talk to him. "My son's bled enough!" "B-b-but the ma-maesters say-" The polemarch's face purpled with rage. "Boy, you'd better run or I'll..!." Endmyion dropped his bowl and fled like a hare. Dazed as he was, Pausanias was glad. Prince Cleombrotus's threats were never empty.

With shaking hands Pausanias took the cloth out of his mouth and staggered to his feet. None of the men who had clustered around him helped him, but none was expeceted. The world spun and Pausanias gagged. His cloak was stained with blood and sweat and grass stains now, and he felt as if wild oxen had run him over. I cannot show weakness. I am an Agiad prince. Euryanax would want him to be strong. "You must never show weakness. You are a prince of the Agiad line," his cousin would often tell him after a whipping in the agoge. "You must always be brave." Anger helped. He was furious with himself for being so weak, furious with his father for treating him like a scab he could not pick off, furious with Prince Euryanax for not being there. But Euryanax was far to the West, solidifying a proper fleet for Sparta should Persia attempt to sail into Laconia's ports. That night Endymion tried to coax him to eat with black broth and hard cheese, but Pausanias was so sickened by the sight of pig's blood he pushed the bowl away. Or rather tried to. He was so weak he could barely sit up. "You need to get better, Master," Euryanax protested, spooning up the broth as trumpets sounded the call to evening prayer. "Here, just a little?" Pausanias finally accepted it, too weak to protest. By the time he had managed to down some food and stagger towards the assembly prayers were over. "Next time you skip Mass I'll strip your back bare!" Sir Amompharetus promised him as we walked past. He was Prince Cleombrotus's right-hand, and a cold man in all things, having no sympathy for anybody. The stench of burned animal fat from the sacrifice that clung to the elder's cloak made Pausanias fill sick all over again, and he retreated back to his tent to lie down.

Later that night, as Pausanis stood sentry--he had not been spared that-- a bent-back helot approached loaded with woolen blankets. "Master Bulis says it's not uncommon to get the chills,"the old man relayed. "The wound will heal better if you are warm, he says." Pausanias might have refused if only to impress his collegues, but his tent mates were all fast asleep, their feet blistered and bloodied from the forced march. "Tell your master he has my thanks." He was sorely tempted to wrap himself up right then and there, but firmly handed the blanket over to faithful Endymion, who had refused to sleep for fear his master would turn feverish. When his duties were finally over Pausanias kicked the next boy awake, then handed off his spear and shield to his helot. "Before you polish these, find out where my father's tent is, and see if Sir Bulis is on sentry duty there. I mean to return that blanket. Don't argue with me! I cannot show weakness. I am an Agiad prince."

O&E Update

I admit updates have been slow lately, but I just came back from a whirlwind tour of Japan to interview the developers of a wrestling game, and my writing has been off from before and after. Plus, I am again shy about showing stuff to people until it's semi-decent. However, I think soon I will post another snippet from my work soon, so stay tuned!

Halloween Treats!

Happy Halloween, everybody! Today I'm dressed as a Greek Goddess (how my co-worker and MC for our costume contest got the idea I was princess Diana I have NO clue) and thought I'd post the begaining of one my O&E chapters (it's a WIP btw). This is from the POV of Themistocles, the smart yet devious think tank behind Athen's new fleet. Enjoy!

Isthmus of Corinth 481 BC(E)

The Acrocorinth rose above the coastal plain like a pair of taut breasts, with nipples black and hard. No wonder Aphrodite is their patron goddesss, Themistocles thought as the ship split the muddy sand beaneath its hulk. It was the very first trimere built from Athen's silver funds, named The Owl and rowed by hard-bitten men from Ionia who drank wine neat and slurred their words. They were refugees from Aristagoras's rebellion ten years ago, men who rose up against Persia only to see the city-states smashed to pieces. When they heard about the Athenian victory at Marathon, they had come flocking over to Attica in droves in hopes of fleeing Persian fire. But without Attican citizenship they were nothing, and spent their days in taverns and fist-fights. Until Themistocles came along. "Pull the oars of my ships and some day you'll be heroes," he had promised them. And here they were.

The Owl's pilot laughed heartily when Themistocles let him in on his geographical discovery. "It rarely snows in Corinth, but when it does the peaks look like they're weaning," he told Themistocles with a grin. He was dressed in corse leathers and his beard was salted with white hairs and sea salt. "How far is it to the Arcopolis from here?" Themistocles asked him as men below the hulk manuvered the ship between other vessels on the crowded beach front. The ship gave a sharp lurch beneath his feet. "Acrocorinth," the pilot corrected. "About a handful of stades, no more. Beware General: Corinthians may be festive, but when it comes to their polis they can be as prickly proud as any Spartan." Great, thought Themistocles.

The captain now ordered the ladders to be lowered so his passengers could disembark. He was a Phalerum tough by the name of Androcles , a bulky man who had made his living both as a fisherman and a bouncer at his father's tavern. He was surprisingly good at training men to row, but he was a greedy sot as well. Themistocles had been unimpressed when he had tried to haggle over passage to Corinth right. "Oars break, ropes snap, sails tear, and leather hole coverlets need fixin'," he had argued. Themistocles refused: "That's not my fault." "The Corinthians ain't cheap," Androcles protested, "and last time we sailed to Corinth my men broke ten oars." "Train your men better then," Themistocles had told him, "or I'll find someone who will and you can go back to your glourious job as a bouncer." The tough had given him a sullen look, but knew he was beaten.

Themiostlces watched him now as he took the satchel of silver from Nikandros's fat fingers and tucked it neatly into his vest. "Keep your men out of trouble and you'll receive a bonus when we return," Nikandros promised. "Remember: your men are the face of Athen's new navy, so I excpect them to act like it." To prove he wasn't bluffing he produced another satchel of coins and jingled the metal within. "They'll behave themselves, or by Posidon's trident I'll make them row all the way to the Pillars of Herekles and back without a break," the captain vowed solemly. He practically drooled at the sight of all those owls. And why not? A man could get well and truly drunk off of the money he's being offered.

As they made their way down the swaying ropes to the sand below, Themistocles noted the names of other ships beached nearby. There was the Thetis, the Amphitrite, the Lioness, the Sea Horse, and two Corinthian patrol boats aptly named Aphrodite and Aries. Further along the western beach side were two unstable looking tubs, Castor and Pollux, beached slightly apart from the rest. Themistocles got a chuckle out of the names Rape and Pillage--until he recognized them for Aegian ships. So Aegina is going to be on the right side of justice this time, he though wryly.

There were only three of them representing Attica: Themistocles because he represented the navy, Cimon because he represented the land nobles, and Nikandros because he funded both. The man chosen by the Corinthian government to host their small embassay was jolly and fat as Nikandros, dressed in bright robes and gold jewlery that clinked and clacked whenever he moved. His auburn beard and hair was shot with white, but he maintained a youthful air. "Aletes, son of Bacchis at your service," he piped as they made their way off the sandy beach and onto the busy waterfront where their host was waiting. "Aletes? As in of the old royal family?" Cimon sounded impressed even with his clipped tone. The rolling of the ship had turned his face an unhealthy shade of green, but now he wrapped his purple hitomon around him deliberatly and stood very straight, nose in the air. "The very same," the Corinthian said proudly, "though we have not been in power since Periander's tyrany." He grinned. "Come. I have arranged for my finest chariot to take you to my estate just outside the town, and tommorow I'll guide you to the Acrocorinth where you can be greeted by our archon. The assembly is two days from now, so you're just in time." Themistocles elbowed Cimon out of the way so he could walk astride their host as they ambled towards the gold-lined chariot being attended by a lone servant. Around them robeless men hefted clay jugs and crates full of various city-state goods, while merchants haggled loudly about prices. "I see some of the other delegates have already arrived," Themistocles had to shout to be heard over the clatter of commerce. Behind them Cimon muttered conspiculously, rubbing his arm, while Nikandros waddled after them in his verdent hitomon, panting. "Those that intend to fight." Aletes shrugged, then abruptly changed the subject. "At any rate your Excellencies, I hope my lodging is to your liking. My baths are wide and deep, and my lady servants should be to your...liking." He favored Themistocles with a sly smile. "Bought them from a Carthiginian slave-trader. The girls are from Libya. Very exotic and very frisky." They piled onto the chariot, barely fitting, and their host signaled the charioteer to snap the reins.

Corinth was older than Athens, though not so ancient as Thebes, and situated on the narrow Isthmus between the Pelops and Attica. To the east dusky mountain chains rose up above the coastal plain, creating a peaceful enclave. To the west were the mountains of the Pelops, silent and brooding across a narrow strip of sea. They wound their way north and west then north again, following the stone highway's serpant-like path. I wonder if I spat into the wind if it would land in Sparta, Themistocles thought as the Pelops seem to inch closer and closer. He would have to try it sometime.

The multi-columned estate was hidden in a dense olive grove along the crowded Periander Road, hidden within a canopy of gray-green leaves. As the chariots turned out of traffic and onto the private causeway, Themistocles caught the musty scent of olives baking beneath the parched dome of Uranus. The uneven cobbles beneath the wheels bounced the chariot around, their host forced to apologize for the uneveness. Shadows danced along their forms as the horses trotted beneath the silver-green leaves that sheltered them from the summer sun. Male slaves wearing nothing more than a sheen of oil knocked the fruit from their branches into wicker baskets, chattering in the lilting Corinthian dialect. "I head the olive crop in Corinth is good this year," Themistocles called over the rumble of chariot wheels. Aletes laughed. "In truth it is a normal year, but with Prince Gelon fighting Phonecians in the west there is no competition from Syracues." "Is there cooperation though?" Themistocles asked, trying to maintain his balance when the chariot suddenly lurched in a small dip in the road. He did not care much about the Western colonies of Hellas, but if the Persians cut off Attica's resources from the Black Sea, they would need Sicilian grains and metals. The man took his meaning. "If the Spartans--whoah!--if the Spartans called Sicily to arms, they haven't shared it." "So Sparta is here!" Cimon said excitedly. Anything and everything Spartan facinated him. Themnistocles answered for their host. "No, son of Militides. Sparta is in Laconia. Here is Corinth." He ignored the younger man's scowl as their host pulled on the reins to stop the silver-maned horses in a sunny patch just outside the mansion. The house was impressive enough: the pink-veined colums were wide and flat, great marble shoots growing out of their foundations. "The Pelopponnesian League will be represented at the assembly, I take it," Themistocles continued as they stepped off the chaiots. Bare-foot Men in simple tunics and caps ran foward to help them--it took two strong men to help down Nikandros-- then unhitched the horses. "Aye." Aletes did not sound happy about. Themistocles was not surprised. Relations between Corinth and Sparta had soured after the coastal city had refused to follow the Mad King's plan to make Isagoras tyrant of Athens some thirty years ago. By default that meant equally strained relations with city-states like Elis and Olympia. If the Corinthian wasn't happy though, Cimon surely was. "The Pelops in this war will make all the difference," he told them. "We of Marathon, together with the Spartan army leading the way will beat the Persians back." "We will," Themistocles agreed, " though I should remind you Cimon that you weren't at Marathon." And I have no intentions of letting Sparta lead us anywhere.

That night their host treated them to a lush banquet in his spacious garden, the scent of honeysuckle and hyacinth heavy in the star-speckled air. A singer recited odes to Aphrodite and Dionysus, and recounted the poems of such famed locals as Arion and Eumelus. The dusky Libyan girls followed up with a dance, their hypnotic sway appraised by all. They dined on slivers of succulent goat shanks, bowls of cured olives, plates of fresh goat cheese and flatbread and saucers brimming with honeyed wine. By the end of the night Themiostlcles could not recall how much wine he took in, or who he danced with (one of the girls had particularly alluring eyes). He fell asleep on the stone walkway...and woke up in a cold sweat. His head and heart were racing. His stomach roiled like the sea in a storm. The dream was already fading, but a sinister thread remained: the image of a hundred foot Persian standing over the slain body of Theseus, his massive sandled foot on the hero's head like a conqueror. Themistocles recognized him: he was the first man he had ever killed, not only in battle but in life, a Persian who had looked more fit to be at court than at battle. His wicker shield had not protected him against Themistocles's sword, the man helpless before his enemy's wrath. Now the Persian was no longer a frightened, helpless archer but a fearsome giant with blue-green eyes that saw Themistocles, and the giant had laughed.

How Long Does It Take To Write A Novel?

I was warned about this. Some authors takes weeks to finish a work. Some take months. Some take years. I didn't think I would be one of the latter.

If you had told me when I first started The Owl & The Eagle that two years later it still wouldn't be finished, I would have balked. Yet here I am. There are days when I worry: is two years too long? Almost every day I think of something to add, subtract, or tweak in my book. But I worry: is this NORMAL? Do published authors go through this too? Or is this a sign I'm not cut out for writing? Any clue, fellow authors?

On a side note, the next excerpt (sp?) from O&E is coming up. It's a preview of Themistocles and the Athenian embassy in Corinth, when the allies meet to decide how to fight the Persians. It doesn't go the way Thems wants it to at all...