D.R. Erickson's Blog, page 2

Jack Shandy to the Rescue

A Review of Tim Powers' On Stranger Tides

Back when I didn't know Tim Powers from Stephanie Powers—or even Austin Powers, for that matter—I tried to read one of his novels, Declare, and didn't get very far. I found it overly complex, densely-written and populated by uninteresting characters.

On the negative side, that might sum up in a nutshell the other Powers' novels I've tried to read, too. I found Anubis Gates impenetrable, and The Stress of Her Regard was just, well, kind of dull.

Maybe this experience colored my initial reaction to On Stranger Tides. Despite its weird collection of pirates, zombies, ghosts and wizards, I wasn't exactly thrilled with it on my first read-through. I felt confused more than anything else. But I love Powers' prose and, thinking I must have missed something, tried again.

Ah, much better! The second time was the charm. The key is to concentrate.

Here's the problem: Characters vanish and reappear as different people—Anubis Gates does this sort of thing a lot, too—and every character has his own secret agenda that makes it hard to say what the novel was actually about: It was about a bunch of different stuff. Also, by the end of the book significant action begins to take place off-stage between chapters and shifting points of view make for some jarring transitions. Powers might have tried to cram too much book into too few pages.

So you have to concentrate.

It's worth the effort. Once you unravel the various plotlines, you are rewarded with a story that is at once absurd and grotesque—two great tastes that go great together, in my book.

The story revolves around Blackbeard's search for the Fountain of Youth. Accompanying him, for reasons of their own, are—besides an assortment of living and undead pirates—an insane, one-armed academic, his wife—well, part of her anyway—his daughter and his repulsive physician/wizard, and a puppeteer-turned-pirate named Jack Shandy (whose puppeteer-ing skills are put to hilariously grisly use towards the end of the novel) who has fallen in love with the daughter.

If none of the characters rise above simple caricature, at least Powers spares the reader momentum-killing scenes of pure character development. Here, plot is king and not a single chapter is wasted. Jack Shandy is a typical SYMPRO (sympathetic protagonist), for example, while Elizabeth, the daughter, is the classic DAMDIS (damsel in distress). In fact, Shandy seems less an 18th century pirate than the time-traveling American from Anubis Gates (as does the main character in The Stress of Her Regard, too, frankly). Oh, well, the wooden ships keep the novel grounded in history, even if nothing else really does.

While Powers presents none of this in overtly comic terms, an undercurrent of humor pervades the entire novel. But it is the quality of Powers' prose that keeps me reading. Here's a nice passage introducing Blackbeard (the whole scene in which Blackbeard first appears is good, starting with the "kalunk...clunk of the oars knocking in oarlocks" from across the dark sea culminating with the description of the pirate I reproduce here):

"Blackbeard strode up the sand slope toward the fires, and paused for a moment where it leveled out, a big, jagged silhouette against the purple sky; his three-cornered hat seemed too tapering and long at the corners, and with the points of red light bobbing around his head he looked to Shandy like some three-horned demon newly climbed up from Hell."

Even when his pitches don't quite reach the plate, his imagery is unique and colorful:

"...he was acutely aware of each armed man as he would have been of a scorpion clinging to his clothing..."

Reaching its zenith in his description of zombies:

"...their eyes were the milky white that, in fish, was a sign of having been dead too long."

"Their bare feet, shuffling across the deck, made sounds like someone rolling dead toads down a shingled roof."

Who doesn't know that sound?

Though not without its faults and requiring a decent effort on the part of the reader, I'm recommending On Stranger Tides without reservation. I'll probably read it again. All in all, a fine man-book. I wish there were more like it.

Blood Gate Sample and Project Man-Book Update

     The Blood Gate is divided, roughly, into two main storylines: the first is that of the Prathian mercenary Xanthippus as he attempts to assassinate Prince Hurrus and then seek vengeance on his former mentor and rescue his lady love from his evil clutches; the second follows Prince Hurrus as he raises and leads his army through many dangers on his quest to return to his homeland to reclaim his crown.
     Being a military history buff, I have an especial affection for the Hurrus storyline. I love his complex relationship with his lieutenant Xandros (explored in a previous blog post) as well as the realistic depiction of ancient-era warfare.
     In the novel, the Tygetian army is divided into 3 parts, led by the Crocodile Man (Prince Garon), the Snake Man (Prince Kerraunus) and the Eagle Man (Prince Hurrus). One day, knowing that the enemy Sarian army is on the march, Hurrus and his companion body (a small bodyguard unit of 20 men, which includes his right-hand men, the thoughtful  Xandros and the more impulsive Deon) are scouting the countryside for a sign of the enemy.
     In a hilly desert country, they find a group of  chariot-borne enemy. They think they might have stumbled upon a mass of Sarian troops, but find something quite different when they crest the hill: so-called "Snake Men," the troops of Hurrus' brother, Kerraunus.
     Here's a short sample of the scene intended to give you some idea as to the way in which the novel is written and an idea of the sort of action to be found therein.
     So, without further ado, from The Blood Gate. Enjoy!

     Deon flew over the top of the hill now and the chariots' wheels spun off the ground as they crested the summit. Deon reared as if to deliver another blow, when he suddenly reined to a halt, his charger huffing and shuffling as he peered down the far slope.
     Hurrus and Xandros reached him an instant later.
     There on the downward slope they saw the village of Cunama. In the blowing dust, they had failed to notice the rising black smoke from its fiercely burning buildings. Flames licked the sky, the wind bending them as the fire spread quickly from rooftop to rooftop. Evidence of a violent clash clogged the road. The ruin of one of the Sarian chariots lay amid a scattering of several dead horses and smaller black heaps in the dirt that must have been men. Between gusts of smoke, Hurrus saw the forms of living men with bundles in their arms scampering from the burning structures. Others on horseback rode through the streets to cries of anguish. Hurrus saw a woman being dragged from a house by her hair.
     He felt the blood rush to his face. These Sarians were not soldiers, but plunderers and pirates!
     "Hi-yah!" Hurrus shouted without hesitation, digging his heels into his horse. He whipped the reins to the left, pointing his mount toward the village and away from the chariots rumbling to freedom behind veils of dust across the plain.
     Hurrus rode alone for an instant while his companion body stood frozen in confusion. When they saw where he was going, they quickly spurred forward, joining him in his charge on the village.
     Hurrus could feel them galloping at his side. His eyes locked onto the man dragging the woman. He raised his sword. When the man saw him, he looked up in shock. Releasing the woman, he turned to flee. That was when Hurrus saw the man's gold-edged white cloak, the same as worn by all the plunderers.
     "They are Snake Men!" Xandros' voice boomed in his ear. "Kerraunus' men! Not Sarians! What do we do?"

PROJECT MAN-BOOK CONTINUES

     Okay, so finding novels that are not intended for teenage girls is not as easy as I thought. Some of you reading this were nice enough to offer me some good man-book suggestions last time. I could always use some more. In particular, does anyone know of any good atmospheric horror novels? I'd love to reconnect with this genre, which for me has pretty much lain dormant since The Shining.
     I have made some progress, though. Look for my review of Tim Powers' On Stranger Tides, coming soon.

Here's what I've been doing since my last post.

Read
Cahokia: Ancient America's Great City on the Mississippi (I just returned from a visit to this place, in St. Louis. If you go, read this book first. Lots of info you won't find in the museum.)
On Stranger Tides
Affinity Bridge

Reading
Empire of the Summer Moon (I keep going back to my non-fiction roots.)
Cabinet of Curiosities (For $.99, why not?)

To Be Read
Neptune's Inferno: The U.S. Navy at Guadalcanal (Hornfischer's Tin Can Sailors was so damn good, I have no choice but to read everything the guy writes.)
Drawing of the Dark (Powers again)
Stress of Her Regard (Powers again)
I need help expanding this list. Man-books, anyone?

MY WORK-IN-PROGRESS

     Just so you know, I'm now over 30,000 words into my next novel. Basically, it's an historical mystery, set in 19th century New York, a mixture of history, mad science and supernatural horror, with a unique main character. I can't say more, or everyone would want to write it. I'm a pretty slow writer, so give me about 3 more months to finish 'er up.

The Blood Gate Gets Reviewed!

Erica Woolridge of Sift Book Reviews posted her review of my fantasy novel The Blood Gate today.

"And when the author promises unforgettable characters, non-stop action, romance, and intrigue, he most certainly delivers. The Blood Gate engages the reader quickly from the beginning and transports them into a world of war and treachery. A definite 5 stars out of 5.

"This may be my shortest review, but there is a limit to the number of ways I can say this book was awesome—go read it."


Read the Full Review Here

In Defense of Man-Books

     Yeah, I get it. As a 50-year-old man, I'm nobody's favored demographic. Who cares if I walk into my local Barnes & Nobel and 90% of the time walk out again empty-handed? That's what my novel-shopping is like. Hell, I gave up reading fiction altogether for about 15 years. I read nothing but non-fiction that whole time, history mostly and most of that military history, to be precise. The kinds of novels I wanted to read just weren't being written. Or, I should say, they weren't being published. Who knew what was being written?

     Okay, I grant you, I'm picky. I like certain kinds of novels. And I'm not just talking subject matter or plot here. I like my novels to be written a certain way, too. I like my authors to care about craft (Egad! What  a pretentious word!) and not simply to call the first thing that pops into their heads good enough. I hate forgettable novels. These are the ones you devour in a few hours, set aside, and never think of again. Not good enough. I'm looking for a memorable experience from my reading.

     As far as subject matter goes...Well, I've given this some thought and the kind of novels I like have one or more of the following elements:

1) Supernatural horror.
2) Mad Science.
3) History.

      Oh, and did I mention the author has to care about craft. No thrillers written entirely in sentence fragments for this guy.

     So any combo of these three factors, coupled with good writing is my kind of book. They're what I call Man-Books and I'd like to see more of them.

     So what are some examples of good Man-Books.

     Jurassic Park is a quintessential Man-Book. Supernatural Horror? Weak check. The dinos are certainly horrific. Mad Science? Strong check. In spades. History? Dinos again.

     Larry McMurtry's Comanche Moon is another. (This is my favorite novel of all time, by the way. Just so you know.) Supernatural Horror? Hey, if Ahumado is not about as close as you can get to supernatural horror without actually being supernatural, I don't know what is. Mad Science? Not really, but not every book has it all. History? It's set in the 19th century. Oh, and the writing is outstanding.

     Maybe the best Man-Book ever written, though, is Preston and Child's The Cabinet of Curiosities. In fact, most all of the P&C repertoire is first-rate, especially Brimstone, Cabinet, Dance of Death and Book of the Dead. Unflinching Man-Books all.

     My own books also qualify. The Blood Gate has plenty of supernatural horror and a sense of history. (Although, my wife tries to make the case that the novel is really a Lady-Book, due to the Xanthippus/Lyssa storyline. But I'm not buying it. She really has this thing for Xanthippus. If I wasn't such an alpha-male myself, I might be a little worried.)

     The War God's Men is a straight-up historical. I like straight-up historicals as long as they concern the fates of nations and lots of warfare. As George C. Scott said in Patton: "God help me, I do love it so!"

     So why are Man-Books so hard to find? Maybe I'm just picky. A couple of authors whom I really, really, really, really (you get the idea: think "Ain't No Sunshine" here), really want to like are Tim Powers and Neal Stephenson. Powers can write. Of all the writers of Man-Books out there, Powers is the one I admire most as a writer. Here's an excerpt from The Anubis Gates so you can see what I mean:

     Stacks of mildewed, leather-bound journals filled the place from floor to ceiling, and had in places collapsed, spilling crumbled fragments of age-browned paper across the damp floor. Doyle reached for the top volume of a stalagmite stack that only came up to chest-high, but rain had leaked into the room at some time and melted or germinated the ancient bindings into one solid mass. Doyle's prying was exciting to madness a nation of spiders, so he stopped and looked at a shelf that contained several pairs of mummified boots. Catching a glitter by the heel of one, he looked closer and saw a three-inch length of fine gold chain trailing from the ancient leather. All the boots proved to have chains, though most were copper long since gone green.

     I enjoy reading this, and I appreciate the effort Powers put into it. If I were to reckon, I'd say the man spent a good half-hour or more crafting this paragraph out of whatever tiresome banalities first spilled from his pen. This is how I want to write.
     Here's one from Stephenson's Quicksilver:

     Enoch had tried to develop the knack of edging around people's perceptions like one of those dreams that does not set itself firmly in memory, and is flushed into oblivion by the first thoughts and sensations of the day.

     That one is not as good as the Powers' quote, but Stephenson's love of writing shows through nevertheless. The point is, there are easier ways to phrase both of these paragraphs and, from what I've seen, writers of what could otherwise be great books are too prone to leave it at that.

     Anyway, I've decided to make the effort to find Man-Books and bring them to your attention here on this humble blog. Traditionally published or Indie makes no difference to me. I'm hunting Man-Books. I'll let you know what I find out there.

The Blood Gate? That's Ancient History!

     The following is an excerpt from The Blood Gate. Through his farsee stone (a kind of telescope), Hurrus is contemplating the enemy leader just prior to the commencement of battle.

      "Ah, but here is the loveliest flower of all!" Hurrus crooned. This one sprouted from a golden chariot pulled by four white horses. He focused the stone on the unmistakable figure of Memnon, the Sarian god-king, riding the lower slopes behind his army, the royal head shaded by a parasol of purple silk. A hundred armored horsemen rode to either side of him. Sarian soldiers cheered him as he passed. Through the stone, Hurrus could see every detail of his face. A youngish-looking man, he nevertheless had a regal bearing and wore an arrogant expression. His oiled beard hung in tightly coiled ringlets from his chin and his hair was a glistening bed upon which rested a golden crown.
      Hurrus caught himself muttering as he contemplated the god-king's face.
     "Do you know against what type of men you'll have to fight?
     We who dine on sharpened swords,
     And drink down blazing torches as our wine."
      "What is that from?" It was Xandros' deep voice. He had ridden up alongside Hurrus without him knowing.
      "It is from a poem Nadia taught me as a boy," Hurrus replied. "It speaks of Xarhux's men as they set out on their campaign into the Eastern Lands. Today it speaks of Hurrus' men." He turned to Xandros with a smile and slapped the stone down into his palm. "On this day, my friend, it speaks of us."
     "The Sarian line outflanks our left by at least a quarter-league," Xandros observed, unconvinced.
      "Ah, but we dine on sharpened swords, remember? Of whom can this be said more than you, Xandros?"
      Xandros frowned. He had never been one for poetry. "I don't understand."
      "Memnon outnumbers us on the left, it is true. But I have something on my left that he does not."
      "What is that, my lord?"
      "I have Xandros."

     The Blood Gate is fantasy, but it is also history. Just as Hurrus has Xandros, Alexander had Permenio. And just as Hurrus quotes a poem taught him in his youth, Alexander might have uttered the same lines, for they were written by the playwright Mnesimachus to describe his father's army. 
     The stanza in its entirety goes like this (as quoted in Victor Davis Hanson's brilliant Carnage and Culture):

    "Do you know against what type of men you'll have to fight?
    We who dine on sharpened swords,
    and drink down blazing torches as our wine.
   Then for dessert they bring us broken Cretan darts
   and splintered pike shafts. Our pillows are shields
   and breastplates, and beside our feet lie bows and slings.
   We crown ourselves with catapult wreaths."

     The Blood Gate, though purely fantasy, is inspired by history. Hurrus is part Pyrrhus--whom you might remember from The War God's Men--and part Alexander. Xandros, of course, is his Parmenio. Sort of.
     Savvy historians will be quick to recognize certain scenes. Here is one drawn from Alexander's crossing of the Gedrosian Desert. In my version, Hurrus is pushing his army across a waterless wasteland in pursuit of a defeated enemy when they encounter an abandoned camp.

     Other men had run off in every direction to sprawl in the shade of tree or house. Men were desperately digging in the gullies, using helmets and shields, spears and swords.
     "It is a fresh camp," Deon reported after inspecting the still-warm ashes of a fire. Hurrus nodded and both men turned when they heard a shout from one of the defiles. By the time they arrived, the cry of joy had changed to an anguished sob.
     The man they found there was one of the Silver Shields. He had dug a little hole beside a harsh gray shrub. His hand-dug well amounted to little more than a damp spot in the sand. He had teased perhaps a saucer-full of gritty water from it and it now pooled in the crown of his helmet. When he saw Hurrus, he offered the helmet as if it were a precious chalice.
     "For you, King," the lad said. His lips were cracked and dust clung to the fuzz that grew on his cheeks. Though only in his eighteenth year himself, Hurrus felt a fatherly tenderness for the boy. The entire army had stopped to watch them. "It is all there is," the boy said. Hurrus could see that his eyes would have welled with tears had he any in him. "You drink it, King."
     Hurrus knelt on one knee and took the helmet. A tiny disk of water swirled inside. He handed it back. "I am no king," he said, "and the water is for you to drink, son."
     After that, the men found water spread throughout the campsite, in little saucer-full packets as the boy had.

     Later, we find Hurrus' lieutenant and life-long friend, Xandros, becoming increasingly suspicious of Hurrus' growing ambition. The army is suffering to the point that the men are eating their horses, another episode directly from Alexander. I'll let this scene play out to the end, since it forms the main conflict in Hurrus' storyline for the last half of the book.

     "We should not have crossed the Horns," Xandros said two nights later. His face was caked with dust. He spoke with a thick dry tongue and dusty lips. 
     Hurrus sat slumped in his chair. "Do you smell that?"
     Xandros sniffed. "The men are cooking--"
     "--their own horses, I know. I pretend not to notice. On the other side of the Horns, any man committing such a crime would be flogged."
     "The men must live," Xandros said. "When the wagons are empty…"
     His voice trailed off. Hurrus stood and moved to his desk where he kept a little box. He opened it and withdrew a jewel-encrusted dagger. It was worth more than Xandros would earn in a year.
     "I want you to have it," Hurrus said. "One of my Shields took it off a Sarian officer. He presented it to me, but it is yours. Gods know, you killed enough of them, many with your own hands. Don't think I do not know that."
     Xandros held it under the light of the burning lamp, turning it. "What on earth would I do with this? Were I to wear it in my belt, I would look like a Sarian whoremaster."
     Hurrus turned. "Xandros, I need you," he said.
     "Then let us turn back."
     Hurrus clenched his fists. "It is the old Xandros I need."
     "And I need the old Hurrus," Xandros said. "The one who cared about his men more than some petty god-king."
     "My men have tasted their first battle, Xandros. What would you have me tell them when they stand upon the same blood-soaked ground to face this Memnon a second time? What answer would you have for them when they weep at the funeral pyres of their fallen comrades and wonder to what profit their brothers have died? When they see the crown of Memnon sitting atop my head, they will know."
     "Know what? That you are the king of the sandrunners?"
     "I don't believe my ears. Xandros, what has happened to you? What glory has ever been won through caution and fear?"
     "Cautious I am, yes, with the lives of men. Need I remind you that the funeral pyres we light now are not for those lost to glorious battle, but to want and savagery. What is to be gained out here in this wasteland? Xarhux conquered the world, but even he did not bother with this place. Let us leave this desolation to the Sarians, as Xarhux did."
     "I leave nothing to my enemies," Hurrus said. "Nothing."
     "I fear it may be you who ends with nothing, Prince."
     "I will be left with men who have been tested beyond human endurance."
     "Those who survive, yes."
     "Those who survive will be the greatest soldiers of this age, Xandros. They will give me the world."
     "The world now, is it? I thought you only meant to have Epiria."
     "Epiria I shall have, my old friend, but I will only enter it with the blood of my enemies smeared on my face, marching at the head of an army that will make even Gyriecians tremble."
     Xandros smiled. "Perhaps it is only their leader that will make men tremble," he said, laying a hand on Hurrus' shoulder. He sighed. "Hurrus, I am your brother and you will find me always at your side. But this…" He held up the pretty Sarian dagger and thrust it into the tabletop where it stuck fast, the lamplight dancing in its jewels. "I have a feeling I won't be needing a bloodless blade such as this."

That's it for now. Until next time, happy reading!

Who You Callin' "Secondary"?

     As a schoolboy, Andrew Jackson did a lot of wrestling. One of his early opponents would later remark, "I could throw him...but he would never stay throwed."

     Any writer who has ever wrestled with his characters knows they can be as willful as Old Hickory himself. I used to liken characters in a novel to playing pieces. The writer carefully situates them across the game board of his story to achieve some strategic objective. But that's not quite right, because what you find out is that—unlike pawns and knights, and rooks and bishops—your creations often turn out to have wills of their own.

     This is nowhere more true than with the writer's secondary characters. These are the guys who, in movies, show up in the credits as "man in crowd" or "cab driver." They don't even have names. They are usually created on the spot to carry out some specific task. Perhaps they're given a line or two ("These pretzels are making me thirsty."), but the writer makes it clear to them that they are not to embellish or adlib in any way. "Get in, say your line, and get out," you command them...

     ...only to have them flip you the bird.

     It seems counter-intuitive, but for the writer, it's a magic moment when a character throws off his literary shackles and begins acting on his own. As a writer, your satisfaction is directly proportional to how hard you tried to throw him—and to keep him throwed. That's why the actions of your secondary characters can be so gratifying. You have already given your main characters lots of leeway. "Just do whatever you feel," you tell them over cocktails in the luxury of their air-conditioned trailers. To the bit players, your message is a little more direct: "Just shaddap, you, and do what you're told."

     I'm embarrassed to admit it now, but Gelon, the Syracusan cavalry commander in The War God's Men, started life as one of these insignificant nobodies. "Get the supply convoy safely to the Roman siege lines," I told him. "And no funny business." But when the Roman tribune started yelling at him, and Gelon got down from his horse... Well, you might be surprised to know that I didn't write that. That was all Gelon. Cheeky bastard.

     Likewise, Vonos in The Blood Gate. The last I knew, I was carefully situating the guy behind that wall in the burned out village. He was only supposed to wait for his cue, then stand and utter his lines. But when the time came, he emerged from his hiding with not only a name but an agenda all his own.

     And who knew that "Guardsman #6," the guy Menleco practically strangled to death in Chapter 10, was harboring such resentment that his thirst for revenge would carry him all the way into the 20s. Not I. I just needed a guy for Menleco to terrorize. I didn't know he was going to take it personally. I've been avoiding him ever since.

     The fact of the matter is that all these guys knew I needed them long before I did. Gelon knew I needed a Syracusan leader to flesh out the second half of the book. It seems obvious now. Vonos knew I needed a way to propel the Coronea storyline. And "Guardsman #6"? Well, I think he was just pissed off.

     In the end, I threw 'em, all right. But damned if they would stay throwed.

Why the First Punic War?

     Some years ago, I was researching the Second Punic War when I stumbled upon a description of the First. As intrigued as I soon became by this account, you'll note that I was researching the Second Punic War. While you may think you don't know what that is, I'll bet you do. That's the one where Hannibal crosses the Alps with his elephants. Who has never heard of Hannibal and his elephants? Even if people don't recognize the name of the war (and stop snickering - that's Punic), they at least know the story. Not so the First Punic War. Who knew that there even was one? It is at best the Second's ugly cousin.

     So what is it about the First that could have possibly inspired me to write The War God's Men?

     Well, aside from the easy superlatives - it was the longest war of the ancient world (lasting over 20 years), and included the largest naval battle of all time (Ecnomus), and represented Rome's rise from obscurity to world power - it was, in the end, the people who fought the war that intrigued me.
     
     Granted, this war has no Hannibal Barcas or Scipio Africanuses (African-i?). Instead, it has Hannibal Gisgo and Scipio Asina (Latin for She-Ass, no lie). While, admittedly, Gisgo's no Barca, and Scipio Asina is as renowned for his great failure as Africanus is for his triumphs, these men - these men of the war god, indeed - are no less fascinating.

     Hannibal Gisgo started it all for me. At the outset of the war, Hannibal Gisgo was the man for Carthage. His name is everywhere from the get-go. Commanding the Carthaginian fleet stationed in the Lipari Islands (just off the tip of northeastern Sicily), his hands are all over the commencement of hostilities and he was probably involved in attempts to thwart Rome's crossing of the strait into Sicily from the toe of Italy. He then shows up as commander of the garrison inside the besieged city of Acragas (called Agrigentum by the Romans, otherwise known as modern Agrigento), from which he orchestrates a daring escape after seven months of starvation. Finally, he is best known to history as the Carthaginian admiral at the sea battle of Mylae, Rome's first large-scale naval battle. Though historians generally denigrate Hannibal's military leadership (a bit too harshly, I think), no one can fault his energy. The man was everywhere.

     And few commanders had ever been put in such a bad spot as Hannibal. First of all, it is arguable that his diplomatic efforts before the war started might have avoided it altogether. (I won't go into the rather complicated issue that led to war here. Suffice it to say that it involves a group of people called "Mamertines" whose name, broadly interpreted, means "The War God's Men.") Once war began, however, he found himself trapped inside Acragas for seven months while Carthage assembled an army of relief to rescue him -- and none too quickly, it seems to me. That he was able to escape Acragas with his garrison under the noses of a victorious Roman army is nothing short of miraculous. And his failure at Mylae is more attributable to the Roman secret weapon (possibly designed by the famous Archimedes of Syracuse, then a very young man) than any real short-coming on his part. Worst of all for Hannibal, as opposed to any of his predecessors, the poor guy was going up against Romans, for crying out loud! This has to count for something.

     It is important to understand that when the dust cleared the Carthaginian Council sided with Hannibal. While many Carthaginian commanders were crucified for incompetence, Hannibal was reinstated to command after the Mylae debacle. The late historian Brian Caven in his outstanding book The Punic Wars attributes this to his possibly having had some kind of influence in the capital. This intriguing notion may be. But it also may be that the Council did not see the battle of Mylae as all that harmful to their cause, its effect being mainly psychological. (Damn! The landlubber Romans have a fleet!) They also probably did not see incompetence as the primary reason for Hannibal's defeat.

     While The War God's Men is not merely the story of Hannibal Gisgo, it does follow his adventures, from his days inside Acragas to his eventual tragic downfall a couple years later. Much of the story is told from his point of view, but he is only one of the war god's men I examine -- albeit an infinitely worthy and important one.
 
     As are they all.

God Bless You, Mr. Harryhausen

      As epic fantasies go, The Blood Gate is a serious book. In it, I have attempted deeper characterizations than I ever have before. Though they live in a fantastic world, Xanthippus and Hurrus, Kerraunus, Coronea, Menleco and the rest of the characters seem as real to me as any of the historically-based characters from my first novel, The War God's Men. Though their concerns are mainly earthly and their emotions strictly human - not unlike those of the men of the war god - they do tend to occasionally encounter a different set of problems.

     Like monster snakes...
     And great bull-men...
     And giants made of bronze.
     Ah, it makes my skin prickle just to think of it! In a way, as a writer, it was a liberating experience to work outside of the constraints of history. While The War God's Men allowed me to make contact with my inner historian, The Blood Gate allowed me to make contact with my inner 10-year-old. It is serious adventure, yes, but at times it is just flat-out fun, too. 
     The thing is, the stuff I thought was cool when I was ten, I still think is cool today. (What that says about me, I don't want to know!) I ask you: Is there anything cooler than Jonny Quest? Or a well-worn baseball glove? Or a banana seat on a Schwinn? Or a hedge full of praying mantises? Or Talos, when you first hear his bronze neck screech as he turns his head to peer down at Hercules? 
     Yeah, that's right. I said 'Talos', the giant bronze man from Jason and the Argonauts. Is there anything cooler than Talos? 
     By that token, is there anything cooler than Ray Harryhausen?
     He's the guy who did the fantastic stop-action special effects for the 1963 movie Jason and the Argonauts. Talk about firing a kid's imagination! It was Harryhausen who did it for me. And it wasn't just Talos. It was the food-stealing harpy; the hydra; and, perhaps most memorably, the squad of skeletons who grew out of the ground from the hydra's teeth. 
     Are you kidding me? Is there anything cooler than any of this stuff?
     No; no; and Hell no!
     It is this feeling that I was striving for when writing The Blood Gate, gritty realism combined with a world of supernatural marvels - enough to thrill the most discriminating 10-year-old, even the one who lurks inside you.
     While today's CGI movie effects are in themselves quite cool and certainly far more realistically rendered than anything available to old-school Hollywood - and while my own kids see Jason as laughably lame - it was Harryhausen's version of reality that I saw when writing The Blood Gate's monsters. 
     Of course, you'll see those scenes with your own eyes using your own frame of reference. But for me, I'll always perceive a slight herky-jerkiness to the motion of a monstrous snake as it snaps its fanged jaws at miniscule men who try to fend it off with their tiny spears. And when I see the silhouette of the bull-man's horned head in the mist, it is my inner 10-year-old that sits up and takes notice, just as he did when the first of Harryhausen's skeletons emerged from the ground.
     I can't say too much without giving away all the really cool parts. Suffice it to say that Harryhausen showed me the way. And I hope he'll forgive me for proceeding on the notion that if one Talos is good, twenty-thousand Tali are better.