BASTILLE DAY: POWER TO THE PEOPLE

He was already an impotent figurehead of all the injustices wrought by those who came before him, yet in May of 1789, Louis XVI sat before the Estates-General to hear their grievances against the monarchy. At the time, France was divided into three ranks…The First estate represented the Catholic Church, the king and his court comprised The Second Estate and the Third Estate—the largest of them all—represented the people, most specifically the poor. Simply stated, the revolution was incited by the hundreds of years of oppression of the Third Estate by the Second, by the lack of representation, by the inability to better one’s station, and at the end, fueled most ferociously by the economic crisis that hurtled even more of the population into poverty.

Could Louis and the Second Estate have avoided the inevitable? Possibly. He did, during the Estates-General meeting, to institute taxes upon the Second Estate, an act never before attempted. His efforts failed epically; his nobility turned their back on him. Louis XVI was, at heart, a weak leader, an insipid person, who had neither the courage nor the inclination to fight the nobility or undo what had been done by the many Louis’ that had come before him. Though inevitably, it was this laissez-faire attitude which sealed his fate. Before he could lose all power, Louis canceled the assembly. He could not have instigated more acrimony with one act had he intended to do so.

The power behind the Revolution, men by the name of Robespierre (pictured), Mirabeau and Sieyes, gathered in an assembly of their own, a makeshift meeting inside an indoor tennis court in the city of Versailles. There, on June 20,1789, the Tennis Court Oath, was taken by 576 of the 577 members of the Third Estate proclaiming "not to separate, and to reassemble wherever circumstances require, until the constitution of the kingdom is established". Powerful in language and its meaningful implication unto itself, it was the first time in the country’s history that the French people stood in political opposition to Louis XVI. It was THE turning point, but July would prove to be the hottest month of all.

On the 12 of July, the king dismissed Jacques Necker, the very popular Minister of Finances. On the 13th, a scurrilous rumor spread through the streets of Paris that Louis planned to attack the newly proclaimed parliamentarians.

The Bastille, once a fortress, for centuries a dark, imposing structure that symbolized in its guise as a prison, for all that was injustice in France. It was at the base of this fortress that on the morning of July 14 a group of craftsmen and merchants stool 28,000 rifles, but there was no powder to be found. The guards—no more than 30 in all, comprised of veterans and Swiss grenadiers—were unimpressed. Their leader, one Marquis de Launay, hoping to hold off the revolutionaries until the expected rescue team could arrive, invited representatives of the gathering in to the Bastille. Negotiations ended as members of the mob charged the prison. The meager group of guards fired, killing hundreds. Yet how very disappointed the Marquis must have been when the rescue team arrived…only to stand with the revolutionaries. With their numbers, their power, and their canons, it was but a matter of hours before they asserted victory over the guards.

By 4 in the afternoon the Marquis surrendered, but it was not an act that would save him. Though only seven prisoners were freed—those constituting the entirety of the prison population at the time—all the guards were killed and the Marquis himself were beheaded. The Bastille itself died later that night when more than 800 hundred men destroyed it.

When, years later, King Louis XVI’s diary was found by historians, his only notation for the day read, ‘nothing,’ in reference to his success at the day’s hunt.

“Is this a revolt?” Louis asked the Duc de Liancourt when the noble informed the king of the day’s events at the Bastille.

“No, Majesty,” the Duc replied. “It is a revolution.”

CHARACTERS ARE THE SOUL OF THE PLOT; PLOT IS THE RECEPTACLE OF THE SOUL (INCLUDING EXCERPT FROM THE KING'S AGENT)

That’s the answer I give whenever asked the timeless question, “which is more important, character or plot?” And invariably I get a look of skeptical confusion. But to be truthful, we must recognize that not only can one not exist without the other, but that one cannot be successful without the other…a good character can not carry a book without a stirring story to breathe in.

When we fall in love with a character, it is not only his or her instinctive traits that endear them to us, but their responses to the situations in which they find themselves. Quite frankly, Scarlett O’Hara (one of my favorite heroines of all time) would simply have been deemed a demanding diva if she acted the way she did under normal circumstances. If the war hadn’t broken out and if her struggle did not become one of survival for herself and her family, she would have become a character worthy of reality show depiction and abhorrence.

La Madonna Aurelia, the protagonist of my recent release, The King's Agent, is a woman 'larger than life' and, without proper development and well-deserved empathy, would not have been believed at all. And yet she is fast becoming one of the most popular characters I've ever created.

Like Scarlett, Aurelia is flawed but for all those flaws, revered for her honor and her motivation. Yet it is despite these flaws, and because of them, that she is able to serve both herself and her duty.

During the research process for my historical novels, I know I’ve hit upon a noteworthy time in history when life altering events occur one after the other. At the end of the writing process, I realize I’ve created a character worthy of readers’ attention when I begin to miss her as soon as I’ve typed ‘the end.’

To the great characters that have been drawn by the mighty pen of writers throughout time, I raise my glass. And to the vagaries of life, both harsh and harmonious, in which they reside, I take a giant swig.

And as we toast, here's a glimpse of The Lady Aurelia:

“I am in your debt, Signora…?”

“Aurelia,” she responded, prying her gaze from its study of the palazzo, scanning the space between for any guards who may have picked up their trail. But the small expanse of farmland was empty of all save the budding shoots of spring growth and the packs of scavenging guards headed out along the roads, not into this forest that would lead a stranger to naught but a cliff and a fatal drop to the river below.

His thick brows rose on his smooth forehead. “Aurelia? It is just…Aurelia?”

“The Lady Aurelia.” She sat down beside him, offering as skeptical a glance as she received. “It is enough.”

He laughed then, a low, sultry purring. “Very well then, Madonna Aurelia. I am Battista della Palla, and I owe you my life.”

Battista lifted her hand off her lap and brushed his lips across it. She smiled at him as she would at a mischievous yet indulged child.

“Yes, you do.” Aurelia longed to laugh as well, at him and his devilish charm, at what she had done, at the thrill of the unknown stretching before her. Her wishes had come true and she would suffuse herself in every serving of it like a fat man at a feast.

With keen observation, she took in their position, the activity visible at the palazzo, and the condition of the man beside her.

“Where is your horse? Where are your men? You have not come to this errand alone?” She frowned at him, at such a ridiculous notion.

Battista stared up at the sky above and smacked his lips. “No, I did not come on this journey alone. But my companion, with my horse, is long gone by now I presume. Or he had better be.”

It was her turn to raise a skeptical brow and he capitulated beneath it.

“I’m not sure if the agreed-to time has passed, or if he heard the alarm.” He shrugged as if his situation were of no great consequence. “In either case, he would have taken himself away, saved himself as it were. It has been our agreement for the whole of our lives.”

“Oh, I see,” Aurelia stated with biting succinctness. “Then you are a habitual thief?”

“How dare you, woman!” Battista blustered with outrage, but one only slightly sincere. She saw his amusement in the smile that narrowed his eyes. He tipped his body closer to hers, slipping sideways along the trunk holding their backs. “I am an art dealer, and a highly res…ected one at that.”

She smiled at his slurred protest. His handsome face, now no more than inches from hers, revealed his fatigue and weakness and her amusement faded.

“If I am forced…into thievery…” –his head slumped farther still, until it came to rest upon her shoulder, his words slithering through lips no longer moving— “…then I do…whatever…God will forgive me.”

His last argument—prayer—uttered, Battista lost consciousness, full weight once more falling upon her.

Aurelia shook her head in a wonder. A penitent thief, a religious rogue…of all the men to encounter, of all the creatures on the earth to indulge her capricious desire, she had to choose such an irresoluble person.

With a gentle touch, she lifted his head, shimmied out from under him, and laid him down upon the soft pine needles, bunching his cape beneath his head. She scurried on her knees to his legs, squinting in the dimness at his wound. The dark stain of the makeshift bandage had become moist; the wound still bled and required another wrapping. Her appraising gaze latched onto his satchel, and she snatched at it, sitting back off her knees as she pulled it onto her lap.

Aurelia’s groping hand found smooth metal first, and she pulled out an engraved, finely wrought flask. She shook it and received the heavy gurgle of a full flagon. She pulled out the cork with a pop and touched the opening to her lips, nose curling, shivering at the strength of the libations dripping down her throat. She put the stopper back in the container, but kept it out of the sack; she would use more to clean his wound.

A bundle of rope, a pouch of metal rods—tools of some sort—and two pieces of well-worn flint; the man was indeed prepared for anything. His vigilance served him well. In the meager light, Aurelia unwrapped Battista’s wounded leg and dribbled some of the powerful liquid onto the raw, bloody slash about two inches in length. The man flinched and thrashed a bit, but didn’t regain consciousness and Aurelia rewrapped the leg with a linen also found in the sack, its unknown dried meat removed and set aside. The ministrations had an instant effect; Battista calmed, breath growing deeper as he lapsed into a heavier rest.

Aurelia sat back down, resting once more against the curved trunk. In the distance, she heard the refrains of orchestral music; the party carried on, as she knew it would. The marquess’s guards would have done their jobs well, containing the alarm, dousing the fire, secreting the search so as not to disturb or inform his guests. Only the nobleman would know of the intrusion. The pine needles beneath her pricked her skin as did her guilt for the worry she caused.

The man beside her snuffled in his sleep and Aurelia smiled at the silliness of it, the expression feeling peculiar but pleasing.

They dare not dally too much longer, for night would soon make its way to day. But if he didn’t rest a bit, he might not make the journey to…wherever they might be bound. The thought of sleep impossible, every nerve in her body tingled with heightened alert; she hummed with the adventure in her grasp, unable to temper the mix of joy and fear thrumming through her.

Reaching out, Aurelia pulled his satchel close once more. True, she had found all she needed, but perhaps there were other items of value, or so she told herself, arguing against her own chiding conscience.

Her fingers curled around a parchment and she pulled it out. Aurelia could see the slanted lines and twirls inscribed on it, but not the words themselves. Her head tilted as she studied it, at the oddly familiar curve of the letters. She had seen this hand before.

Aurelia held the parchment out, then up, searching for a patch of unfiltered moonlight. She stood, saw the beam of illumination wafting upon the patch of forest a few steps to the left, and with another tinge of guilt untied the bow as she made quickly for it.

In the pale gray light, the unfurled parchment revealed its secrets.

Aurelia wanted nothing as much as to deny them with a scream. She read the words, now convinced of which hand had wrought them, and read them again. Not one to welter in anger for all she may be constantly piqued at the marquess, but in this she found a wealth of the disturbing emotion. How could he not have told her that this revelation, and what it led to, still existed? How could no one have told her? How could nothing have been done?

Aurelia’s hand, and the parchment in it, fell to her side.

Battista groaned in his sleep, her head snapped toward the forgotten man. Who was he and what was he doing with this? She wavered between the thought that the parchment changed everything and her much-believed conviction that nothing happened without a reason. She could destroy the parchment, but it would only be an impermanent repair.

No, she shook her head, vehemence tossing her now-scattered chestnut curls further asunder. No, she had arrived at this moment for a purpose; the fates had brought her exactly where she needed to be. How many wars were won by those who kept their enemies close?

Aurelia returned to the man’s side, rewound the scroll, tucked it into her palm, and sat down to wait.

THE GHOSTS OF LUCEDIO ABBEY, TRINO, ITALY

Light begins to run from you as soon as you step under the round arched cupola of ochre stone that guards the entry. The unpolished, rough-hewn wood door closes slowly behind you, whether you want it to or not. Turning left you enter the long, seemingly endless corridor that leads away from you with no end in sight…perhaps to an evil infested eternity. Your footsteps scratch along the grit and sand of the thousand year old stone floor as you enter into the darkness, the great stone pillars connected by graceful arches would be beautiful were it not for the shadows that lurk behind them, the tears that stream from them, and their screams. You’ve entered the Lucedio Abbey, once a place of devotion and religion, now considered one of the scariest places on earth.

In the early days of 1124, the Marquis of Monferrato, Raneiro and his parents, Bernard and Ardizzone gave the land upon which the monastery to the abbot of La Ferte in order to enable him to form a new Cistercian Settlement. Also called the Bernardines or the White Monks, Cistercians are a strict Roman Catholic order with emphasis on manual labor and self-sufficiency. With the help of abundant additional donations, the monastery quickly became a vital part of the community, both as a religious presence and as a fecund agricultural compound.

For the next five hundred years, the abbey conducted itself with great comportment with involvement in the Crusades as well as benefices from such notables as the Marquis Boniface, Pope Pius IX, Pope Callistus III and Francesco II Gonzaga. But all that was to change in 1684.

Legend holds that in that year, many of the young girls of the surrounding village became instruments of the Devil, and their work for him was to corrupt the monks of the Lucedio Abbey. Perhaps through seduction, perhaps under the guise of spiritual guidance, the girls preyed upon the monks, turning them into active Satanists, converting their devout practices slowly into harmless rituals that eventually became sacrifices. From that moment on, the Abbey became the sight of debased humanity, a place of gruesome tortures, evil rituals, bloody murders, and even child molestations. A once holy place became a vortex of evil itself, one so malevolent, that word of the happenings reached the pope, Pio VI, who closed the abbey, in 1784, exactly one hundred years later. But by then…it was too late, the evil had permeated the very structure and there it remains, even today.

The Lucedio Abbey has been studied by numerous and varies paranormal groups, and all have come away with the same findings…shadows that move, pillars that weep, cries of anguish that feel the building and the heart with revulsion. It is in the Judgment Room where prisoners were once tied up to stand and await the fate of the Monks that the Crying Column stands, a pillar of stone that becomes wet (‘weeps’) for no reason or rhyme.

The mythology continues into the Crypt where, it is said, and evil spirit was imprisoned under the Church. But only the greatest of powers could keep it sequestered, powers held by the abbots themselves. Buried in an upright, sitting position they are stationed in a circle surrounding the believed vortex of the evil. In a bizarre twist, some sort of natural mummification took place and they are on guard even today, perhaps through eternity.

Additional strange occurrences include a strange mist or fog that inexplicably rises up and overtakes the Principato and bell tower. In the graveyard strange shapes, of the kind that people say represent the Devil, appear to dance upon and around the graves and stones. And in the church and the priest’s house, strange lights and sounds ring out at odd days and times.

In a land as ancient as Italy, this is but one of many such places, where remnants of previous lives have left their indelible ethereal impression upon the physical earth. As I set about to write historical fiction tales of the uniquely Italian sort, I cast my mind’s eye and my writer’s pen to the winds that carry such stories.

THE SWISS GUARD: FROM HOMELESS MERCENARIES TO REVERED WARRIORS

Rivaling the romanticized myth and legend of the Musketeers are those colorfully garbed Swiss Guard. We think of them now as the stalwart guardians who protect the Vatican, its people and its historic treasures. How strange it is then to look back to their genesis and find homeless men who were, in essence, killers for hire.

“The Helvetians are a people of warriors, famous for the valor of their soldiers,” so proclaimed Cornelius Tacitus, a senator and historian of the second century. Helvetia—the Latin name for Switzerland—is, as well, the name of the tribe from which the population grew. And grew it did, so large it fell under precarious economic conditions of an overpopulated land shrouded in poverty. Some 15,000 men looked to emigration for salvation and their skill as warriors for the profession.

This moment was to be the creation of a band of brothers as famous as any that ever existed. Developing a tactical form of combat unique in its style—sans cavalry or artillery—they fought in brief and yet victorious wars during the warm weather months, returning home with their pay and any ‘bonuses’ they may have garnered in the form of looting.

Their reputation grew and so did their patrons; the Swiss Guard fought for France, Spain, Vienna, Naples, Portugal and other, smaller actions. But it is as the Papal Guards, the Guardia Svizzera Pontificia, that they still exist and in which personification the world knows them, the “Defenders of the Church’s Freedom.”

Though there is evidence of an alliance between the Guard and Pope Sixtus IV dating to 1497, it is January 22, 1506 when 150 Swiss soldiers stepped foot on Vatican grounds and were blessed by Pope Julius II. The next few years found them fighting for the Holy See, as well as for other Italian States, but it was not until a fateful day in May of 1527 that their most valiant test came upon them.

It is here that I encounter the Guard in the Sack of Rome, in a pivotal moment in The King’s Agent. A dynamic combustion of varied warring political forces found Italy besieged, yet again, by the French. The attack on Rome, when it came on May 6, 1527, found the city poorly protected against the under paid, under fed forces of Charles, Duke of Bourbon, frustrated and irritable soldiers who took it upon themselves to feed upon the glory that was Rome. The city was looted; men, women, and children were abused and killed, and the Vatican itself was set upon and overtaken. Of the almost two hundred Guards that protected the Pope, all but 42 died. Yet it was this valiant, heroic effort that allowed the Pope to escape from the heart of the overrun Vatican City, through the Passetto di Borgo, to the temporary safety of the Castel Sant’Angelo.

Every year, on May 6, new recruits are sworn in to the Swiss Guard in commemoration of the soldiers’ bravery on that fateful day, accepting their duty with this oath:

"I swear I will faithfully, loyally and honorably serve the Supreme Pontiff and his legitimate successors, and also dedicate myself to them with all my strength, sacrificing if necessary also my life to defend them. I assume this same commitment with regard to the Sacred College of Cardinals whenever the See is vacant.

Furthermore I promise to the Commanding Captain and my other superiors, respect, fidelity and obedience. This I swear! May God and our Holy Patrons assist me!"

NOT ALL ITALIANS WERE/ARE IN THE MAFIA (or act like those from the Jersey Shore)

It has always been my belief, that writers of fictional works shouldn’t have an aggrandized agenda behind their writing; it has been my experience that those that did become ‘preachy,’ a place I never wanted to go. And yet I will admit, here and now, that part of my emphasis on Italian historical fiction is not only to throw a light on my own ancestral homeland, but in doing so, also hammer a crack in the perception that all Italians were or are in the Mafia, that if Italians should be noted for anything, it should be for their creative and artistic acumen, their ingenuity, and their passion for life.

The first names to roll off the tongue need little if any explanation…Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael, Donatello, Dante Alighieri, and Petrarch…all artists whether of the pen, the brush or the chisel, they are considered some of the greatest the world has ever produced…Italians all. There is of course that friend of da Vinci’s, one Galileo Galilei.

Disregarding the contributions during antiquity and of the early Romans—monumental as those contributions to humanity may be—there have been nineteen Italian Nobel Prize Winners; one in economics, one in chemistry, five in both physics (including Marconi and his development of radio transmission) and physiology/medicine each. Of the six who won a Nobel Prize in Literature, Giosuè Carducci (1835-1907) was a poet, noted historian, and an eminent orator. His work would be the standard for many successive and highly successful Italian poets to follow. Walking in the footsteps of some of the greatest literati of all time, Dante and Petrarch, Carducci’s work was considered cutting edge and, at times, extremist. One Italian, Ernesto Teodoro Moneta (1833-1918), was the recipient of the Nobel Prize in Peace for his commitment and the foundation of the “Lombard Union for peace and arbitration.”

It was Eugenio Barsanti (1821-1864) who invented the first internal combustion engine driven by gas and Tito Livio Burattini (1617-1681) who developed a system of measurement based on time upon which today’s International System of Units is based. A man many may be especially thrilled with is Antonio Benedetto Carpano (1764-1815) a distiller who became famous for inventing Vermouth and consequently the concept of an aperitif. It was an Italian, Giovanni Caselli (1815-1891) who invented the pantelgraph, the precursor to the fax and another, Bartolomeo Cristoforo di Francesco (1655-1731) who invented the piano. And who cannot help but send up a word of gratitude, Italo Marcioni, the Italian American who invented the ice cream cone. Maria Montessori (1870-1952) is forever remembered for her philosophies and teaching methods that are more utilized now than during her own era, and grow more and more popular every day.

There are currently more Italian opera singers than of any other nationality, except American, and a majority of those are of Italian heritage (such as my son).

Italian violins are considered the archetype of the instrument; the oldest violin, the greatest violin of all times, and the most famous violin were all made by Italian hands. My own grandfather, Michele Galiano Russo (born 1896 in Foggia, Italy, d 1966 Providence, RI) was a violin player and maker, one of which rests in the Smithsonian Institute (and pictured at left).

And where would any of us be without Marco Polo, Christopher Columbus, Amerigo Vespucci, and Giovanni da Verrazzano, to name but a few of the astounding Italian explorers.

It is estimated that since the beginning of the Mafia, its roots in the tenth or eleventh century Sicily, perhaps thirty to forty thousand Italians and Italian Americans have been involved in the crime organization that began as a form of family protection against the feudal lords and barons. Today, Italy’s population is cited at 60,483,521 making the percentage of those involved in the organization less than .05%, and that does not include the millions of Italian Americans equally unsullied by the most despicable of minorities.

Few movies or television shows have ‘glorified’ any of the great Italians mentioned above as they have the Mafia and, unfortunately, far too many opinions are cemented in these odious portrayals. I ask two things: read and learn about these extraordinary individuals (and the hundreds of others not mentioned) and speak of Italians if you will, if you must as this blog has proved, but speak of us con rispetto…with respect.

IN HONOR OF NFL DRAFT WEEK: (OR HOW A HISTORICAL FICTION WRITER GOT HER FOOTBALL FIX) GIUOCO DEL CALCIO FIORENTINO

When I’m deep into my work for a new book, whether it’s in the research stage or the writing stage, I typically take only one day off a week. From the end of August until the beginning of February, that day is most frequently Sunday, not however, because of any religious practices, but because…that’s football day.

Yes, as a person of extremes, one of my favorite escapes from the heavy, old, and staid tomes that I love so much is the sweaty, scream inducing, adrenaline firing sport that is football. How stunned—wonderfully surprised to galactical proportions—I was when I found, among the history of Florence that I was investigating for The King’s Agent—the very sport with which I schedule my life around for half the year.

Giuoco del Calcio Fiorentino is, in translation and reputation, the Florentine Kicking Game. In Italy, it is simply called calcio, translated as ‘kick’. The game was born, where it’s played still, in the courtyard of the Piazza Santa Croce in Florence, one of the most visited squares in all of Europe, a rectangle anchored by the Basilica Santa Croce, where the most illustrious of Florentines are buried. But unlike most European courtyards, you’ll find no statues or fountains or shrines holding the place of prominence in the center, just one large open square that becomes a 50 by 100m sand covered pitch. The oldest documentation of the game appears sometime in the early 16th century, with the official rules published in 1580, but it’s accepted that the sport most probably began a few decades earlier, in the late 15th century.

Upon close inspection, calling this sport ‘football’ or a ‘kick’ game is an understatement; no, it’s a washed out understatement. Giuoco del Calcio Fiorentino is a combination of soccer, rugby, boxing, wrestling, and head-butting. These guys laugh at ultimate fighters. The object of the game is to score a goal by kicking, throwing or placing a ball in the opposing team’s goal area, one that spans the entire width of the playing field. The opposition to the objective? Twenty-seven other players that are ready, willing, and able to use whatever horrific physical obstructions at their disposal to stop it. What results is any number of one-on-one grapple bouts breaking out all over the field, brutal tactics employed to do whatever it takes to prohibit the other team from forwarding the ball toward the goal.

Historically, the game was played by aristocrats…counts, dukes and even former popes…and much of the violence on the pitch was a reflection of some off-field slight…a stolen girlfriend, a political backstab. The game and ill-feelings, having birthed such violence, has done very little to stem it, in fact, nothing at all.

As in those bygone days, the teams are formed within the four ancient quarters of the city: the (red) Rossi from Santa Maria Novella, the Verdi (green) out of San Giovanni, the (white) Bianchi hail from Santo Spirito, and the Azzurri (light blue) are from the quarter of Santa Croce. Though the sport took a two century hiatus, since 1930 a three match tournament has taken place every June.

Taking their well-being in their own hands, there are (ironically) eight referees on the course during the whole of the 50 minute-match. Their duty is to enforce no more than a couple of rules: there is no kicking to the head (yes, which means all other kicking of one’s opponents is allowed) and there is no sucker-punching (defined as a hit from behind). All other seemingly vicious maneuvers—choking, head-butting, and throwing sand in an opponent’s eyes—is fair game and necessary to score a goal (caccia).

With this my fourth book, but the second set in the land of my ancestors, and my current work-in-progress (a trilogy no less) set as well in the land of breathtaking landscapes and lip-smacking wine, I yearn to walk the rolling hills of Tuscany, to step upon the same cobbles as da Vinci and Michelangelo…and to watch a huge group of incredibly well-built men—naked to the waist!—try to get a ball past a goal line while surrounded by glorious historical buildings. For this particular historical novelist, it just doesn’t get much better.

One could make the case that I included this scene—this relic form of the game I love so much—as a bit of self-indulgence, and it wouldn’t be a completely erroneous statement. However, because of the timing of its appearance in the story it does so much to establish the character that is Battista della Palla, a factual historical character whom I like to describe as a patriotic plunderer and religious rogue, the male protagonist that steers the plot through all its incredible twists and turns. It reveals early on his eagerness to take risks, his ability to make split seconds decisions and the nerve to see them through. It puts him in the league with such men as Indiana Jones, Captain James T. Kirk, and Luke Skywalker.

Who would have ever thought I could use my beloved football for character development in a historical setting? Talk about having your sport and writing it too.

BLENDING HISTORICAL FICTION, A LITERARY CLASSIC AND A VIDEO GAME--THE KING'S AGENT--A TEASER

As my latest release becomes the topic of the blogger discussions, a common curiosity rises concerning the coalescence of historical fiction, Dante's Divine Comedy and the video game The Legend of Zelda. I'm thrilled that the majority of feedback has been overwhelmingly positive, including this from the Publishers Weekly starred review: 'Morin skillfully blends historical fiction and fantasy in surprising ways. She draws effortlessly upon influences ranging from Dante to Raiders of the Lost Ark, and the authority of her presentation makes the world she’s created come alive.'

But for those who haven't read it, there is still that skepticism, that skewed look that begs the question: how. I can think of no better concise answer than to give an excerpt, a teaser, if you will. Enjoy!

***********

Battista took Aurelia’s hand, gave it a squeeze, and stepped forward.

Beyond the egress, the groans became screams as air rushed at them, hitting them square in the face, pulling the snood from Aurelia’s head, lifting her skirts and Battista’s hair. Aurelia raised her arms as if to block out the sound…defend against the onslaught of wind. Battista squinted to see what lay before them. The walls of the chamber opened up, becoming a long rectangular room with what appeared to be no more than a black abyss awaiting them at the end.

Taking a few more tentative steps forward, Battista raised the lantern.

That’s when they saw them.

On each side of the room, statues stood guard alongside the walls, tall, pitiable giants. Of dark gray stone stained blacker with mold, their gnarled, open mouths cried out their pain. Whether men or women it was hard to tell beneath the hooded robes shrouding their faces…in the hopeless, helpless expressions they all wore. As the air pummeling them rushed through the statues’ mouths, it scraped against their jagged teeth, the contorted lips, filling the space with the sound of anguish itself.

Battista turned his face away, desolated by the statues’ song, the misery evading him body and soul. Upon Aurelia’s face, now wet with tears, he saw his own heartbreak.

“The sorrow of it.” She hung her head, now curtained by hair unbridled with the force of the wind.

“Don’t weep,” Battista begged of her, for he could not manage her sorrow as well. “It is not—”

She grabbed his hand, eyes bulging out at him.

“Weep. Weep,” she repeated with bizarre elation. “Il Commedia. Your copy. Give it to me,” she demanded. Her own leather-bound volume, that given to her by Giovanni, she had left in her large bag with Frado.

Battista pulled the book from his pouch and gave it to her, watching her as she urgently turned pages, bracing her back to the rushing air, preventing it from sweeping the light tome out of her hands.

Her page flapping held; her intense gaze rose to his face. “We are in Hell.”

Battista longed to laugh at the irony of it.

“‘Here sighs, complaints, and deep groans sounded through the starless air, so that it made me weep at first. I will be your guide and lead you through an eternal space where you will hear the desperate shouts, will see the ancient spirits in pain, so that each one cries out for a second death…’”

She read to him, though there was no need; they had come to the right place, as much as he may wish to deny it. But the first piece of the triptych would not be in this room; it would be folly indeed to think they could overcome this challenge easily.
He took her free hand as she tucked the book to her chest with the other, and led them forward once more.

The contingent of screaming statues led them onward, the expanding sound gaining momentum, an audible, devouring torture. Battista hunched his shoulders against the onslaught of sound and air, scrunching his face and eyes.

“Close your mind!” Aurelia yelled over the cacophony, repeating herself at his puzzled glance. “Close your mind to it. Put yourself…your being…in another, better place. You can do it, I know you can.”

She waggled the hand he held in his in encouragement and pulled him to a stop. In their stillness, he contemplated her words. Such a strange suggestion and yet he found his spirit taking flight, returning to his mother’s home, at the table with her and his sister, laughing so riotously as to bring tears to the eyes. He opened his eyes, thanking Aurelia with a smile, wondering yet again of her truth—and stepped forward.