Homophobia in Ancient World Historical Fiction

I was going to post my most favorite and least favorite movies of 2011 this week.  But I just finished reading Conn Iggulden’s GATES OF ROME, and it got me thinking, and pissed off.

What’s with all the homophobia in ancient world historical fiction and its close companion heroic fantasy?

Let me be clear about what I mean.  It’s not that having a homophobic character, or depicting a homophobic scenario, is always a bad thing.  It very well may be realistic for the character or the time period.

Contrary to romantic notions about ancient Greece or ancient Rome being a bastions of homosexual freedom, the status of homosexuals was more complex.  While society was free of the religious persecution of the Christian era, and the criminal persecution of later eras, there are records of condemning male effeminacy and sexual submissiveness in public speeches and theatre.  Sometimes they appear as light-hearted jabs questioning a man’s true manhood.  Sometimes they were more severe and scandalous.

To portray gay characters in ancient times, authors ought to take into account the nuance and paradox of the times.  It is reasonable to depict, for instance, the unique social pressures affecting a gay character, and his struggle to reconcile a masculine ideal with his sexual and emotional realities.

But, you can write about homophobia without contributing to it.

One dimension of homophobia—not limited to ancient world/heroic fantasy—is the exclusion of gay and lesbian characters.  Gay men and lesbians have existed forever, but how often are they portrayed in ancient world stories?  How often are they the hero of an epic journey?

When gay/lesbian characters do appear, too often they’re killed off as a device.  Homer may have been the first author to use the trope “bury your gays.”   Remember the death of Achilles’ lover Patroclus in THE ILIAD?

Gays also come to bitter ends in Conn Iggulden’s GATES OF ROME, Nick Drake’s NEFERTITI and Ursula Le Guin’s LAVINIA.

“Bury your gays” is really bad, but I find what’s worse is the stereotypical and negative treatment of gay characters.

In David Gemmel’s LORD OF THE SILVER BOW, the one lesbian character Andromache “grows out of” her lesbianism when she meets the hetero hero Helikaon.

In Nick Drake’s NEFERTITI, the one gay character Ay is a secretive, scheming puppetmaster.  The one lesbian character is a basket case who unknowingly and tragically abets the murder of her lover.

Conn Iggulden’s GATES OF ROME is an interesting study in homophobia. The one gay character is a dandified soldier, who is in love with the Consul and Military General Sulla.  Iggulden names the gay soldier Padacus – a conscious or unconscious play on ‘paidaika,’ a pejorative for gay in ancient Greece.  Sulla fears Padacus has become too emotionally attached, and will go into a jealous rage when he’s spurned in favor of a pair of female prostitutes.  Thus, Sulla decides his only option is to have Padacus killed.  Here we have the “gay basket case” trope and “bury you gays” all in one.

I’m not saying that every gay character should be likable and have a happy ending. But when there’s zero likability and zero happy endings, you have to wonder: why the bias from all these authors?

Even Ursula Le Guin, who has been credited with promoting good female portrayals in male-dominated fantasy/sci fi, manages to jump on the gay-hating bandwagon with her ancient Roman retold legend LAVINIA.  Her token gay character Prince Turnus is an insecure buffoon who is out to prove he isn’t gay, while everyone knows he is.  Of course he meets a violent death at the hands of Aeneas, the hetero hero of the story.

Maybe Le Guin felt her rendering of Turnus demonstrates a point about prevailing sexist and heterosexist attitudes.  But the portrayal would have worked better if there were other sympathetic gay characters in the story.   As it is, Turnus’ death comes off as a righteous fact-of-life.  He is only seen through the judgmental eyes of the heroine Lavinia, who is presented as a reliable and otherwise sympathetic storyteller.

Author/producer Perry Moore went on a crusade to change the superhero genre.  I’m feeling there’s a similar need with ancient world historical fiction.  “Ask yourself: Equal Rights?” was a slogan Moore used to insert in comics on post-it notes.  We need equal rights for gays in the ancient world.  We need more gay and lesbian heroes.

Studying Heroic Fantasy: David Gemmell’s Lord of the Silver Bow

Three posts in as many days?  How do I explain.  I think it’s part neurotic overcompensation (I won’t be posting again until the week of August 14th) and part pre-Writers Retreat mania.  Anyway, I’ve been working on this review for a little over a week, it’s done, so I’m posting it.

Trying to catch up on recent ancient world fantasy, I picked up David Gemmel’s Lord of the Silver Bow.   It’s the first book in Gemmell’s Troy trilogy, which reimagines the famed conflict between Mykene Greece and Troy, this time from the Trojans’ perspective.   A British author, Gemmell died in 2006.

Who am I to critique Gemmell, one of the most prolific and popular writers of heroic fantasy?   My study of the genre is growing, but still spotty, and I have two unpublished historical fantasy manuscripts to my name.   So take this review as the perspective of one writer, one reader with an interest in the time period, and the mythology, and a preference for great characters and stories that illuminate our state of being, triumphant and horrifying as it is.

Lord of the Silver Bow casts Aeneas—Gemmell calls him by his childhood name Helikaon—as a respected military hero, and a reluctant politician.   He abdicated his claim to the kingdom of Dardania, a strategic ally of Troy, because he blamed his tyrannical father for his mother’s suicide.

The central story concerns how Helikaon will find his way in a brutal world that’s undergoing rapid political changes, and switched alliances, including those that guide who he can or cannot marry.   When he falls in love with his Trojan cousin Hektor’s bride-to-be Andromache, he’s caught in a familiar bind: will he follow his heart or follow his duty?

Adding to the tension, Helikaon is being targeted for assassination by a multi-national pact to avenge the death of a popular Greek war hero.

I found that the story shone brightest when portraying the complexity of human nature.   Warriors commit merciless acts, yet they are fiercely protective, even tender toward their family and comrades.

One chapter concerns a mercenary who murdered Helikaon’s half-brother and raped his stepmother.   Hard to portray a rapist in a textured  way, but I feel that Gemmell succeeds by telling the story from the mercenary’s point-of-view.   There’s no apology or circumspection, but I thought it was a realistic portrayal of a ruthless military lifestyle in which the choices are to kill or be killed; and the men therein guard their place, and loved ones, by a vicious cycle of ever-increasing violence.

It’s the character contradictions that make for the most interesting reading here.   Bound by a code of honor to refrain from violence as a guest at a foreign feast, Argurios, a Mykene, a natural enemy of Helikaon, slays a pair of his countrymen when they try to assassinate the prince.   A master assassin proudly reflects on having made his way by killing men, but per a priest’s advice, he will only carry out his vocation from Spring to Autumn so as not to displease the god of the Underworld.   Beliefs around religion, ethics, morality are evocative of an ancient time, yet the questions and struggles resonate well today.   Is there ever honor in violence?   Can a man who commits monstrous acts be redeemed?

Less successful for me was the narrative structure.   The story changes point of view every single chapter, with over two dozen character perspectives represented, and many of them are minor characters rarely or never to be heard from again.  Each chapter feels satisfyingly complete, a nice short story in itself.   But early on, I found myself wondering:   who and what is this story about?   Ostensibly, it’s Helikaon’s journey, but he disappears for such lengths of time, I didn’t fully engage with him.

The length is also daunting for a story that only lasts a week or so: nearly 500 pages!   There were times I slugged through it rather than enjoyed it.

Another weak spot was the romance.   Part of the problem relates to the above, not enough focus on the couple we’re supposed to care about:   Helikaon and Andromache.   But I didn’t trust that the author had it in him to create a compelling love story anyway.   There’s a cliched love-at-first-sight meeting (forgivable if there’s an intriguing follow up), but it was kind of like trying to root on the two most popular kids in school.   Helikaon and Andromache are treated so generously, I didn’t really care if they ended up together.   Slightly more compelling is the counterpart love story between the hardened, exiled Mykene warrior Argurios, and always-the-bridesmaid-never-the-bride princess Laodike.

But most regrettable was the portrayal of Andromache’s bisexuality.   It’s a facet of the story that appears to exist solely to titillate non-gay readers.   There’s no depth to Andromache’s (supposed) affair with another woman from her wild lesbian-segregated past, and meeting Helikaon, of course, “straightens” her out anyway.

So, I give Lord of the Silver Bow three stars or maybe a B-.   I don’t know that I will read more in the series.  On one hand, there’s terrific rendering of the ancient world setting and sensibility.   But there’s room for improvement in character development and the complexity of romantic themes.