Navigating the Complexities of Masculinity in Historical Fiction

The last book in my Palladium Trilogy is shaping up to be a deep dive into the concept of legacies—how our words, actions, and the examples we set influence our contemporaries and the next generation. I aim to explore how characters like Varro, Cato, Scipio, and Aemilia affect their families, friends, and wider Roman society.

A new character, Lucius Aemilius Paulus, becomes a focal point in this exploration. Lucius is the teen son and namesake of the consul killed at Cannae, and he is also Aemilia's younger brother and Scipio's brother-in-law. As he matures, Lucius faces the challenge of becoming a man without a father to guide him—a difficult path for anyone, even one from a rich and powerful family like his.

Our understanding of Roman masculinity is nuanced and often imperfect, providing ample room for artistic interpretation. Traditionally, Roman masculinity involved studying and practicing virtues such as physical and moral courage, honor, and a sense of civic duty. However, the tumultuous times during which Lucius comes of age complicate this picture.

The Rome in my first two books in this series is a society in turmoil. The elites repeatedly failed to address the threat posed by Hannibal, exacerbating existing economic upheaval caused by the displacement of small farmers by slave labor. This economic shift led to widespread resentment among the common people, who viewed the elites as responsible for their hardships. Additionally, the advancement of women's rights and increasing immigration to the city, both from the countryside and poorer nations, created further social upheaval.

The resentment towards the elites extended to the virtues they upheld. In the eyes of the common people, these virtues—physical and moral courage, honor, and civic duty—became tainted by association with the elites who had failed them. As a result, these virtues were often perverted. For instance, Varro, a coward, and his supporters twisted the concept of courage to justify his actions, calling cowardice bravery. This sort of rationalizing often happens when resentments lead to motivated reasoning to resolve problems associated with cognitive dissonance. When you believe the "other side" is "evil," you excuse or rationalize extremism, excess, and otherwise inexcusible behavior on your own side (just as Nellie Bowles, a writer with great moral courage).

Lucius, like many of his fellow Romans, is filled with anger—anger at Varro for his father's death, and anger at Varro's supporters for their perversion of virtues. The critical question for Lucius is: what will he do with his anger? How he channels ir will be the most important determinant of the kind of man he will become.

Will he allow his anger to consume him and lead him down a path of destruction, or will he find a way to transform it into a force for positive change? This inner conflict mirrors the larger societal struggle in Rome—a society grappling with the meanings of honor, courage, and duty in a time of profound crisis.

As I continue to write the final installment of the Palladium Trilogy, I am deeply interested in how Lucius's journey will unfold. His story is not just about one young man's quest for identity and honor, but also a reflection on the complexities of masculinity in a changing world. Through Lucius and the other characters, I hope to offer a nuanced exploration of how we define and live out virtues in times of upheaval, and how our legacies are shaped by these choices.