Michelle Styles: Roman gladiators, highlanders and Vikings Oh My!

One of the great things about being part of the Harlequin Historical authors is that I am part  of a sisterhood who are passionate about writing historical romance, and history in general. I have been part of this particular sisterhood since 2005 and sometimes forget that when others join, they might have read my books. Earlier this year, I realised a newish author, Greta Gilbert had written a Harlequin Historical set in Ancient Rome. I wanted to read it so contacted her, expecting to have to explain who I was etc etc. To my surprise and delight she had read some of my books and graciously allowed me to read her latest (it is absolutely cracking). She also agreed to do a short blog for Tote Bags so you all could get to know her better:

When I was asked to tell my call story for Tote Bags, I immediately thought back to my twenties and the release of the movie Gladiator. I was an unpublished fictionista then, and I remember thinking that it was one of the best-written movies I had ever seen. Maximus (played by Russell Crowe) was the honorable (and rather hunky) general-turned-gladiator whose story was both plausible and incredibly poetic. The moment he touched his fingers to the sands, he had my heart.

Rejection letters piled up through my thirties, and by my forties I had mostly given up writing fiction and was working at an education publisher. A coworker told me that Harlequin was accepting unsolicited submissions for its Historical Undone! series, so I summoned my inner Maximus and wrote a gladiator story. When I got the call that my manuscript had been accepted, I could hardly believe my ears. I suppose I felt a bit like Maximus after he survived the Carthaginian horde. I still can hardly believe it.

Michelle Styles, friend and author of some truly epic Roman romances, says interest in ancient Rome is due for a resurgence. I hope she is right. With its greed, brutality, pluralism, inequality, and globalism, ancient Rome seems to me like a parallel universe to our own--and one capable of producing great heroes.

And though Russell Crowe’s beard is now more grey than brown, he will always be the honorable young gladiator who inspired me and stole my heart. (Russell, if you’re reading this, call me! ; )

To whet your appetite for this great book 

Cleopatra’s slave girl…

And an enemy Roman soldier…

Egyptian slave Wen-Nefer is wary of all men. But she can’t help but be captivated by handsome Titus, advisor to Julius Caesar―even though he is commanding, and intolerant of bold women like her. Their affair is as all-consuming as it is forbidden. But is he a man who will go to any lengths to love her despite their boundaries…or a sworn enemy she must never trust?

You can read the first chapter for free.

In Other News:

Make a Date with Harlequin is back. 

This time they have a date with a Highlander doing karoke.
They have also done several print ads with Woman’s World. The March 19 2018 edition features a Viking and my latest book. I didn’t know it was there until Denise Lynn, another Harlequin Historical author, alerted me.

What will be next year ? A Date with a Roman Gladiator?

Michelle Styles writes warm, witty and intimate historical romances for Harlequin Historical in a wide range of time periods including Vikings and Romans. Her latest The Warrior’s Viking Bride is out now. You can learn more about  Michelle and her books on www.michellestyles.co.uk

Michelle Styles: Historical fact-checking can be rewarding.

People like their history to be the way they think it was. They tend to get upset when a historian or a historical novelist makes a change that  seems different than their perceived notion. It can be the things you think you know because they are widely accepted fact that can get you into difficulties.

Recently there was a social media kerfuffle about a Roman British cartoon by the BBC. One of the characters was an African military officer supposedly serving in the Britannia. In one picture, he was flanked by his wife. Apparently people on the both sides of the Atlantic (who thought they knew history) screamed – Impossible, political correctness gone mad. Everyone knows Roman Britain wasn’t like that. There were no sub-Saharan Africans there and other such exclamations.

Photograph BBC

 I rolled my eyes. I have spent many hours along the Roman Wall, researching the period and I am happy to report that yes, there were African officers on the Wall. Some of whom may have their families (officially or unofficially) with them. There is a story that the Roman emperor Septimus Severus (a man with North African roots,  it was where the money was during the 2nd century AD) encountered an Ethiopian legionary officer when he arrived at the wall. There were others, including a troop of Nubian cavalry officers who probably were stationed at Chesters. (They may have been responsible for the re-dedication or rejuvenation symbol aka the phallus tile in the floor of the headquarters building which made my children giggle). The Roman Empire was ethnically diverse and they moved trouble-makers from one region to be soldiers in another, but Rome was not multi-cultural. When in Rome, do as the Romans do was an apt saying. It always surprises me when film-makers or other people depict Rome as one single national type. The Roman empire was huge and people did move about.

My problem with the cartoon was that having gone to the trouble to get the skin colour correct, was it too much trouble for the BBC to get woman’s costume correct? Her hairstyle and dress were all wrong for that era.  If you look at tombs of Romano-British women, particularly the famous Regina tomb, Romano British women tended to be all covered up in what has been termed a Gallic robe. Wearing something bare armed would have resulted in the woman being cold and several of tablets found at Vindolanda complain about the cold!  The woman on the tombs had big hair. But that is an aside. The BBC was right to point out that Roman Britain like the rest of the Roman Empire had many hues of skin contained within it. This is far better than assuming African people only really reached Britain after the World War 2 which some people myopically seem to think. 

One question is what happened to these African legionaries and possibly even merchants?  The short answer is we do not know.The large scale excavation of Roman cemeteries really has not happened. They could have served their time and retired back to their homeland. They could have retired in Roman Britain or even beyond the wall (the wall was more like a porous border control) and married local girls or other Romano-British inhabitants. They might have left when the legions left and the entire economy collapsed. Why stay in such a lawless and cold place? They might have been killed during the plague of 541 when approximately half the population of Britain, Europe and the Byzantium empire died. And some might have stayed and intermarried. There could be people whose families have been in the North of England for nearly two thousand years who had an African legionary as an ancestor and that is kind of cool to think about.

In short, checking facts can lead to interesting discoveries.  Given what passes for news these days, it can be helpful to go back to primary sources.  It is always useful to remember that history by its nature is always written through a dark and shadowy mirror and sometimes those reflections are not entirely accurate.

IN OTHER NEWS:

My latest Viking set historical romance THE WARRIOR’S VIKING BRIDE will be published by Harlequin Historical in March 2018. It features a Viking Shield Maiden and a Celtic warlord who has been sent to  return her to her long-estranged father. 

Michelle Styles writes warm, witty and intimate historical romances set in a wide variety of time periods from ancient Rome to the Victorian. Her most recent SOLD TO THE VIKING WARRIOR was set on the Western Isles of Scotland in 875. You can read more about Michelle and her books at her website www.michellestyles.co.uk. 

hi! I'm really excited about my upcoming release, A Court Gesture, book 8 of my It's Reigning Men contemporary royal romance, so thought I'd share a sample chapter. It's coming out August 16. Hope you enjoy it!

Chapter One

Larkin Mallory normally loved her job. Retained unexpectedly in the Rome bureau of The International Chronicle after her one-year internship suddenly morphed into a staff position (thanks to a reporter who decided not to return after maternity leave), she often found herself waking up in the most breathtaking European cities, sent there by her editor to cover stories that ranged from hard-hitting journalism to special-interest feature pieces.

It gave her a chance to really spread her wings professionally, sometimes doubling down with her journalistic chops to cover meaty stories, but also being able to delve into fluffier pieces about, say, cheese rolling contests in England. She liked to say you’ve not lived until you’ve watched a bunch of less-than-sober revelers race down a steep hill in pursuit of runaway wheels of cheddar. Especially considering paramedics are at the ready for the inevitable injuries that come with being accidentally run over by nine-pound spools of wayward cheese coming at you with the velocity of a speeding train.

Never once had she challenged her editor, Piers Woodberry, a paunchy, balding, white-haired Brit who’d held stints at various European tabloids before settling down to work for the more austere international paper. He was usually fair-handed in assigning stories, and Larkin couldn’t think of a time she got stuck having to interview someone she didn’t want to talk to.

The fair-skinned reporter with cascading blonde curls and soft blue eyes tended to hide behind thick tortoise-shell eyeglasses and frumpy clothes, and enjoyed her quiet little slice of the world. She dressed in neutral colors so as to not draw attention to herself, and loved to travel, but only when she could do so on her terms. Not one to indulge in expensive hotel rooms, fine dining or fancy clothes, she was perfectly happy wandering the streets of a given city in yoga pants and trainers, grabbing easy street food (crêpes in Paris, kebobs in Istanbul or supplì in Rome) rather than having to dine alone in a restaurant where she feared she’d stick out like a sore thumb simply because she was on her own.

Even though the reality was that she was alone, and she made no mistake about it. The very nature of her job meant she didn’t get to focus on nurturing friendships, apart from a few colleagues in her office. So while Larkin’s professional life was fulfilling, her personal life was somewhat lacking, right alongside her wardrobe and her sense of self.

Somehow she wasn’t particularly good at envisioning herself as more than the nuts and bolts reporter she was, even though she had the good fortune of doing it in a wonderful part of the world. After all, she wasn’t stuck covering city sewer commissions into the wee hours of the night back home in Virginia where she grew up. Instead, she could as easily find herself strolling along the Champs-Ëlysées as through the rabbit warren-like alleyways of the medieval medina in Marrakesh. In some ways it was a gilded life she led, but somehow she managed to tamp down the exotic nature of it by insisting on being plain old Larkin Mallory, the girl who played flute in her high school marching band and wore thick corrective glasses that perhaps helped others not be able to see her for who she was, which was fine by her.

Larkin was putting the finishing touches on a story about a man who was walking through the Swiss Alps backwards when her boss shouted for her.

“Mallory,” her barked. “You’re going to Fashion Week. Milan. I just lost Silvia, who was supposed to cover it. She’s got bed bugs and isn’t coming back until she’s rid of them. Which means you’re on the Fashion Week beat until I say you aren’t.”

Larkin blanched. Fashion Week? She no sooner belonged in the rarified world of high fashion than she belonged in a medical lab concocting the cure to cancer. Both environments were so not in her stratosphere. She knew precisely nothing about fashion except that you put on your clothes every day and hoped that they matched. And wearing all black kept you from having to even worry about that.

“But Mister Woodberry,” she said, a pleading look in her eyes as if she were a cow imploring the butcher sharpening his knife not to proceed with the impending slaughter. “You’d be better off asking anyone to do that than me. Take Paolo, for instance,” she said, pointing at her colleague standing at the Nespresso machine fixing his fourth espresso of the morning. “Paolo, see, he’s Italian. He knows the world of fashion. Just look at him! He dresses in various shades of black, always so chi-chi and clearly up on the best of what to wear.”

Paolo looked up from his task. “But of course,” he said, tossing back his espresso as he returned to sit at his desk. “La bella figura. It’s the Italian way.”

“Bella figura?” Larkin said. “What the heck is that?”

Paolo stood up again, placing his hands casually in his pockets and striking a pose. He cut quite the handsome figure in his hipster-cut black wool pants and dark gray pin-striped button-down, with a coordinating lighter gray silk tie. His dark hair was perfectly groomed, his face cleanly-shaven, his sleek shoes polished and stylish. “La bella figura is the Italian way of life,” he said, adjusting the knot in his necktie, punctuating his point. “It’s about presenting our best face to the world.” He swept his hands along his body as if to demonstrate.

Larkin nodded. “So yeah,” she said, nodding at her colleague. “That.”

“That?” Piers said.

“I mean Paolo’s your man,” she said. “He’d be perfect to cover Fashion Week. He’s clearly knowledgeable about it and very fashion-forward. He’s Italian, and that helps. Plus, he’s handsome, which I’m sure will get him in with all of the beautiful fashion models for interviews and such.”

Her boss shook his head. “Too late,” he said. “Paolo’s traveling with the Pope to Africa.”

“Awwww, man,” she said. “I’d love go with the Pope to Africa. I’d do a great job. I like that pope. He’s a good guy. Besides, I’m Catholic. He’s my people.” Of course she knew Paolo was likely even more Catholic than she, being Italian and all.

“No can do,” Piers said, shaking his head. “Paolo’s up on his shots and has been taking his malaria medicine. Besides, you don’t cover someone to be a cheerleader for them. If I wanted that I’d give you pom-poms and a megaphone. Sorry,Mallory, everyone around here is locked into assignments and you’re the only one I can spare,” he said, tapping her on the nose with the tip of his pen. “That’s what comes with being low man on the totem pole. But chin up! Maybe you can get some fashion pointers while you’re there.”

Larkin sighed and grumbled. Fashion pointers, indeed. Crap. It was going to feel like high school all over again: the dowdy girl in the band trying to blend in with the prima donna in-crowd beauties. This was gonna suck massively.

A Court Gesture is available for pre-order here:   iBooks  Nook  Kindle  Kobo

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I'm Hitting the Road by Jenny Gardiner

Forgive the late nature of this post -- I've been swamped this week as I am preparing for a big adventure. I leave Sunday for a long trek in which I plan to walk from the Swiss Alps to Rome for a month. And to prepare for just me and a small backpack for a month, I have to get through a lot of have-to's, it seems. I hope you'll follow me as I undertake this journey. I'll be walking part of an ancient pilgrimage route known as the Via Francigena, which extends from Canterbury, England to Rome. That would take three months to traverse, so I decided to take on a more manageable chunk of it. I hope to walk about 16 miles a day, and I will post more on my blog as I get ready to leave and while I am on the road. I hope you'll stop by and follow my adventure, and you can also find me posting on Facebook and Twitter (see below links). My blog will have details, including information about a charity I'd like to raise funds for while I do my walk (which I hope will total about 500 miles by the time I complete it). Hope you enjoy it! Jenny


  Sleeping with Ward Cleaver

Slim to None

Anywhere But Here

Winging It: A Memoir of Caring for a Vengeful Parrot Who's Determined to Kill Me

Accidentally on Purpose (written as Erin Delany)

Compromising Positions (written as Erin Delany)

I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in this Relationship (I'm a contributor)

And these shorts:
Idol Worship: A Lost Week with the Weirdos and Wannabes at American Idol Auditions

The Gall of It All: And None of the Three F's Rhymes with Duck

Naked Man On Main Street

find me on Facebook: fan page
 find me on twitter here
 find me on my website

A stupid famous thing? by Darlene Gardner

The Spanish Steps are a can't-miss attraction in Rome.

My daughter explained this repeatedly to her seventeen-year-old brother this summer as we walked the narrow streets of the old city, farther and farther from our hotel. Only the promise of gelato kept his grumbling at a manageable level. That and his inability to find his way back on his own.

Finally, we arrived at the Piazza di Spagna, which was lit up to give an excellent view of the one hundred thirty eight steps named after the Spanish embassy still located in the piazza.

My son gaped at the sight.

"This is without a doubt," he said, "the stupidest famous thing I've ever seen. It's a staircase!"

Below that long, wide staircase was a beautiful fountain. On that staircase sat hundreds of people being serenaded in Spanish by three young men dressed as troubadours. Many in the impromptu audience were drinking wine.

My daughter, who'd just finished a summer semester in Spain that fueled her with wanderlust, took off for the top of the steps. My son and I took a seat. We were immediately approached by a young man trying to press a rose into my hand. I knew he'd demand payment so I refused to take it. He thrust out his lower lip in a truly hilarious pout.

The troubadours headed up the steps, weaving their way through the crowds, playing their guitars and singing with infectious energy. Soon my son was smiling along with every one else in the crowd.

"Well?" I asked him when we left. "What did you think?"

"I already told you," he said. "It was just a bunch of steps."

Oh, but what steps.

So here's my question: What's the stupidest famous thing you've ever seen?

Darlene Gardner, author of THE SECRET SIN, third in the Return to Indigo Springs series from Harlequin Superromance

http://www.darlenegardner.com