Historical Fiction: Tyrants and Vikings

Writing is one of those things that can easily be put on the back burner. “Everyone has at least one good book inside them” a known devourer of books once said, and it’s a comforting thought that anyone at any age someone can pull up a keyboard and just let loose. Even better than that; arthritis aside, no prospective author has any significant physical advantages over the other. It’s a level playing field, with imagination the only boundary.

Well, that’s unless you want to become a successful historical fiction writer of course. To make the top of that pile, like the voluminously named Valerio Massimo Manfredi, you’d better be listing more than “history teacher” in your CV. The scowling silver haired author not only lists “internationally known history professor” in his accomplishments, but “explorer”, “journalist”, “archeologist”, “screenwriter” and, with his Alexander the Great Trilogy, “best selling fiction author”. With sales in excess of 200,000 he has been credited with ushering in a new era of historical fiction not seen since the 1960s with authors like Mary Renault.

In his latest novel “Tyrant”, Manfredi attempts to shed some light on Dionysius of Syracuse and his life of conquest, no doubt attempting to reveal a character at least as complex as Alexander. (And hopefully selling a few units on the way) Long dismissed as a one dimensional conquerer, “Tyrant” is an attempt to put a real person behind the carnage. A lover of art, a great innovator and an unfaltering nationalist, Dionysius’ character is a study of the relentless pursuit of vengeance and the corruption of absolute power.

So who would have the credentials to set a challenge to this undisputed champion of his genre? What battle scarred Indiana Jones of the written word would dare slap Manfredi in the face with a typewriter by way of a challenge?

Enter a man who has been called “One of the world’s greatest living explorers”: dapper Englishman Tim Severin. Following a cross continent journey by motorcycle from china to Venice as a student, Severin gained considerable fame through his historical voyage accounts, with the added twist of recreating them himself. This has seen him cross the Steppes of Mongolia on horseback, the pacific in a bamboo raft, and in a useful bit of research for his debut novel, the Atlantic in a leather curragh boat.

In a style similar to Manfredi’s, Severin has attempted to take the bones of a historical character and make them flesh, rounding out the true accounts with a dash of the highly likely and a pinch of pure speculation. “Viking: Odinn’s child” is the first part of a trilogy concerning the life of Thorgils Leiffson, a Norse adventurer and story teller. Abandoned at an early age by his mother, Thorgils defies the increasing influence of “The White Christ” and seeks to emulate his favourite god, Odinn the wanderer. Gifted with the power of second sight, Thorgils finds himself swept from Greenland to Iceland, Finland and Ireland, experiencing everything from the bloodiest of massacres to the strictest formalities of the Irish high court.

Severin began his writing career by taking legends and discovering the bits of truth that form their skeleton. It’s a formula that he has managed to utilize in his first work of fiction also, as readers are treated to a richly detailed account of Norse culture and everyday life, especially concerning the social turmoil as Christianity becomes the dominant religion in western Europe.

“Viking- Odinn’s Child” begins its tale in the year 999. Severin has taken most of his factual accounts from “The Icelandic Sagas”, a history which among other things gives account of Thorgils’ real life grandfather Erik the Red. Therefore, while most of the events that take place in Thorgil’s life are presumably true, the details concerning the character of Thorgils himself are all Severin, which in some ways could be the downfall of the novel.

The reason for this probably lies in Severin’s characteristic style of not putting much of himself in his books. In his previous world of travel writing this probably had the sole effect of costing him a little bit of unwanted fame or notoriety, but in “Odinn’s child” it is more of a setback. Despite Severin’s obvious gift for vividly detailed characters, like the financially obsessed Abbott Aidan and the berserker aunt Freydis, there is little emotional response at all from Thorgils himself. Even as he becomes the doomed standard bearer of a slaughtered army, resulting in his own slavery, Thorgils remains unbelievably upbeat and unaffected. Whether or not it was the intention of Severin to literally depict his character as “human flotsam” (he uses this description at one point, to be fair) Thorgils does come across as more a transparent window to the action in the novel than a real flesh and blood character.

Quite the opposite is true of Manfredi’s Dionysius. The simple notions of righteous vengeance that drive Dionysius early on are soon more complex tales of corruption, as his obsession over his slain wife and his paranoia-plagued dictatorship cause even his most loyal companions to doubt him. The performances of his mediocre plays and poetry during the height of his rein paint a portrait of an insecure man too far gone in the eyes of his subjects for redemption.

It’s too bad that Manfredi can’t seem to spread some of his depth to some of his supporting cast, who verge on cookie cutter in their predictability. While it is perhaps understandable for the man who portrayed Alexander the Great as a resolutely heterosexual ladykiller to keep his women beautiful and eager and his men as staunch and single minded, you can’t help but feel there are a lot of unexplored avenues here.

To be fair, Manfredi isn’t writing another trilogy and has to account for a lot of history in a short time. Given the subject’s tendency to long windedness, this can’t be easy. Nevertheless, there are occasional jarring jumps of several years following passages where single days are described in great detail, which is unfortunate given Manfredi’s skill for almost poetic sections of description.

There is also cause to wonder why, despite several other plot serving concessions of historical accuracy, Manfredi still saw it fit to get rid of his chief baddie Hannibal and slot in his successor Himilco without so much as a page of backstory. Yes, Manfredi does manages to keep things moving at a cracking pace, but his juggling of plot and history are at times a little hard to understand.

Despite all this it would seem that Severin will have his work cut out rivaling Manfredi for the history fiction crown. Without presuming too much about reader’s tastes, it seems likely that readers will prefer the “pulp history” of Manfredi with its sex and bloodshed to Severin’s considered and lively tale of adventure. You are likely to learn a lot more reading Severin, but if learning is your concern perhaps the history books are a more useful point of call. There may be pace issues with both books, but Manfredi seems to come out the winner on that front also. Then again, it could just come down to whether you think Vikings are cooler than Ancient Greeks or not. Who knows?