-
184PAGES
100000 WORDS
945KB
AVAILABLE SOON
DOWNLOAD LINK
https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
BOOK FOUR 120AD
Aya grew as a filthy scavenger, trailing the Bedouin caravans that crossed the Nafud wastes and the Rub’ al Khali. Bought from the arena as a young man, his new life as Sethos, the adopted son of a wealthy Roman merchant, is stained by the stigma of his past.
Jaida and her sisters were raised in luxurious slavery, destined to be the virgin oracles of Isis at provincial temples throughout the empire. When the fall of a dice brings the girls’ future into question, it is Seth who must define freedom and slavery, life or liberty – for himself and for them.
He has money, strength and cunning, and she has no more than her faith.
The gods are fickle. When they move among men, they have their own pieces in play, fuelled by anger, greed and vengeance – but Isis is Queen of Heaven. Goddess of ten thousand names; she is every goddess. For every god of stone and wood, she is their mother, their sister, their lover and their nemesis.
Somewhere there must be an accounting.
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Wednesday, March 31, 2010
PETRA - SAMPLE CHAPTER
-
DOWNLOAD LINK
- https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
Full chapter available in PDF, part chapter below
PART CHAPTER.
Petra, Arabia Provincia, 120AD
“Aya!”
A high camp wail of protest and the sound of wooden soled sandals clacking over the atrium tiles brought a smile to Seth’s lips and he dragged a khameez down over his damp skin. Only one man called him by his childhood name.
“Call them off, Sethos. Really, my darling. I’m away two months and already your staff don’t know me. Why weren’t they warned to be ready for me? Where is my drink? Where are my lap dogs?”
Only one man would surge unbidden into his house and demand the household be at his beck and call. The babble of distraught servants rolled around his echoing footfalls, tracing an unerring journey toward the marble baths.
The promus, Zayed, rushed into the bath hall, waving his hands in extravagant gestures of horror, complaining violently about the lack of respect shown by this interloper.
“They do know you, Drusus,” Seth smiled. “That’s why they are so intent on keeping you out. I couldn’t warn them because I didn’t know you were coming,” he reached to embrace his caller, “And if you want dewy eyed youths to laze against you my man, bring your own.”
Decimus Asinius Drusus was not a tall man, but there was an aura of power about him; the sort of light and scented air that surrounds only the obscenely wealthy, and it loaned him a stature nature hadn’t provided. His graying hair was immaculately coiled and coifed, hennaed into brilliant red and orange. His thick moustache remained a fine glossy black and its corners draped luxuriantly over full lips.
He took Seth’s face in his strong brown hands, and kissed each cheek fondly. “My, look at you. I swear you grow more beautiful every time I see you, but that’s my tragedy, I suppose and not yours.”
Turning sharply enough to cause a minor whirlwind of rich fabric, he faced the now silent household staff, clapped his hands and made shooing gestures at them, demanding, “Drinks! Didn’t you hear me? Cold drinks and something sweet.”
Zayed stood his ground, his dark eyes shrieking silent abuse from under lowered lids, his hands clasped dutifully at his back. Tamir had refused to enter the room in the midst of the furor, and waited by the door like a sad eyed hound who’d long lost the will to fight.
“Refreshments,” Seth mouthed, nodding to acknowledge the insult to his promus, and smiled as Zayed remade his face, leaving only the tightness in his lips to suggest his displeasure. Turning his full attention back to Drusus, he asked, “How was your journey mi Pater? Let me guess. Hot. Dry. Uncomfortable. Successful?”
“All of that, and more. Successful so far, at least. But things are changing dearest boy. The world is growing bigger, and we are too far away.”
“Too far from what? You’ve built your own paradise right here in the Arabian desert. You made Petra bloom.” From time to time his benefactor was taken with a dream of new horizons, or smitten with a certain town or city he had visited, but these whims were short lived and Seth knew to simply calm and reassure the older man. It was rare for him to return from a trade mission without a longing for greener pastures.
Drusus flagged a dismissive hand and twirled a finger through his curls, “I can’t take all the credit for that,” he purred, and Seth smiled fondly. “It is beautiful here, I know. But I’m getting too old for all this travel.” He was silent a moment, then rushed on with a shameless plea for flattery. “Am I getting too old for this?”
“Never too old. Where is it you think you want to be?”
“Oh Rome Darling, where else is there? Rome, where all the money and influence is. This place is a haven I know, but it’s so provincial. So damn provincial.”
“There’s money here, Dec. You are testament to that. There always has been and there always will be. Egypt, Assyria, Persia; your endlessly beloved Greeks; now Rome. All the empires come and go, and Petra remains. While the empire builders need spices from across the desert, and while you own the water....” The arguments made themselves and Seth had voiced them all before today.
“I hardly own the water. I only own some of the cisterns that hold it and the pipe works that channel it.” Drusus looked petulant, but there was more to his discontent than usual, he was too full of theatrical zeal, and Seth began to feel some concern. He was tense, the frown that crossed and re-crossed his brow was deep with unnamed sadness and his lips, when he paused, were pale and turned down.
“And, and, and....” Seth rolled a hand over all Drusus’ assets: the buildings, the businesses and the controlling interests, which would remain unmentioned. “Here, take a seat. Have a drink. Tell me what you’ve seen or done that’s made you feel unhappy with your lot.”
He had quietly taken his patron’s arm, turning him and leading him back through the cool deep shadows of the house, to the new annex. It was bright with natural light; desert breezes filtered through dripping veils of muslin, moistening and cooling the parched air, and making the room a small climatic wonder. Murals lined the plastered walls, and rich mosaics featuring Drusus’ favorite azure tiles covered the floors.
Every item on which the eye could rest, cast back color. Glass and tiles, crusted gems, bottles, boxes, cages, rich oils and fabrics, all warred in screaming discord and no single item stepped back modestly from the fray. Gold, silver and bronze shone everywhere, but rarely for the sake of its own beauty or value. Precious metals served only as frames and foils for the loudest, brightest and most unashamedly brilliant baubles.
Drusus allowed himself to be comforted, settling back into the soft cushions of a heavily carved cedar daybed.
Zayed appeared, as if by some silent miracle known only to butlers, and set a tray of rose water on the central tableau. Each colored goblet glistened with finely cut facets, and on a fretted silver saucer beside each drink, lay a tiny sweet jelly and a crisp hash cookie.
As Seth lay back, extending his long legs comfortably into the airy weave of a hammock, he sighed theatrically and reached for his own beverage. “Would you really leave this behind? The Nabateans are very particular about their secrets, Dec. While you live and prosper here among them, you’re welcome to enjoy the special little perks of controlling the spice trade; but do you think they’ll let you take their ambrosial liquids and Elysian medicaments off to the wide world? Think again.”
“My dearest, don’t lecture me on what our wonderful hosts will or won’t do for trade and wealth. I’m where I am today because, and only because, I understand so very well the Nabatean preoccupation with balancing secrecy and commerce.”
He sipped his drink and Seth looked away, staring into a glittering corner of the room, and into his memories. “You are where you are today because you made good choices in the flesh trade.”
“Only in the beginning.” Drusus reached to set the goblet down, slamming it too heavily onto the tray. “And such paltry wealth compared to what we have now. You more than anyone alive should be glad I prospered in the slave trade or you’d be dead in an arena somewhere.” Wiping droplets from his hand, he muttered; “Only slaves hate slavers, Seth.”
“They have the greatest cause, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.”
Drusus irritation was starting to take shape, and an uncomfortably niggling intuition grew at the back of Seth’s mind. If his patron’s most recent foray to the capital had brought him back into the temptations of buying and selling men, it was likely to be a conversation that would not end well for either of them….[continues]
As the line of camels ambled to a halt and knelt, grunting out foul smelling protest, Jaida gathered the folds of her abayah in close to her waist and peered around at shadows. The wide sky was still bright above; fading slowly from deep blue into mauves and golds, but the sun cast its light in long reaching beams that skimmed the desert surface and left the wadi huddled in the shade of its cliffs.
Around her men rushed and chattered, hauling the beasts to the ground and hastening to unload bolts of cargo strapped along their backs. The donkeys smelled water close and set up screeching choruses that echoed from the rock face, while a patient line of bearer boys stood forward with a convoy of litters.
“Step down now, my dear.”
The voice called her attention to the side of the animal she rode, and she let her shawl slip down over her shoulders as she accepted the hand offered for her support. Beside her, her sister turned and grimaced comically as she slid stiffly to the pebbly sand below. Jaida had no smile to return for the moment.
They had reached their destination, it seemed, and they were at last free of the rolling discomfort of the camel train. Dust had worked its way in through the layers of her clothing and caked on her chest and back. Grit chafed on her thighs as she took her first few steps, and she took a moment to stretch her spine, to twist and open her arms, before she gathered the shawl up over her hair and moved dutifully toward the line of litters.
Darkness was gathering more quickly now, and she checked along the line of kneeling camels, swiftly counting off her sisters, ensuring everyone was accounted for. Ahead were four small carpenta, each with six boys: two girls to a litter; and each of the small vehicles glittered richly in the fading light. Their new patron had money, at least. How much he knew of temple service and the demands of the life she and her sisters had been raised into, she had yet to learn.
Jaida held back, watching as each of the girls hurried in behind their beaded curtains and the boys lifted their load. When all seven were ensconced, she too slipped into the richly cushioned comfort of her litter. Beside her Ianthe murmured prayers and held back the curtains to watch as the bearers carried them forward through al-Siq, and on into Rekeem; the Rose Stone City called by the Greeks and Romans, Petra.
Above them the evening sky made a bright slit, but the dark sandstone walls drank in the torchlight and crowded together claustrophobically. On and on they wove between the towering walls, soft sand on the paving stones crunching under the feet of the bearers, and the wooden frame of their litter creaking under the strain.
Jaida studied the walls in silence, waiting for each burning torch as they passed along the defile, where God blocks sprang from niches, and crevasses reached up into the darkness above. Her study was a device to calm the racing of her heart and mind. It had worked well enough to have her fascinated, and she jolted slightly when Ianthe spoke.
“It’s done, then, isn’t it? We’re here. For better or worse, we’re here.”
“We’re here,” she agreed quietly....
-
DOWNLOAD LINK
- https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
Full chapter available in PDF, part chapter below
PART CHAPTER.
Petra, Arabia Provincia, 120AD
“Aya!”
A high camp wail of protest and the sound of wooden soled sandals clacking over the atrium tiles brought a smile to Seth’s lips and he dragged a khameez down over his damp skin. Only one man called him by his childhood name.
“Call them off, Sethos. Really, my darling. I’m away two months and already your staff don’t know me. Why weren’t they warned to be ready for me? Where is my drink? Where are my lap dogs?”
Only one man would surge unbidden into his house and demand the household be at his beck and call. The babble of distraught servants rolled around his echoing footfalls, tracing an unerring journey toward the marble baths.
The promus, Zayed, rushed into the bath hall, waving his hands in extravagant gestures of horror, complaining violently about the lack of respect shown by this interloper.
“They do know you, Drusus,” Seth smiled. “That’s why they are so intent on keeping you out. I couldn’t warn them because I didn’t know you were coming,” he reached to embrace his caller, “And if you want dewy eyed youths to laze against you my man, bring your own.”
Decimus Asinius Drusus was not a tall man, but there was an aura of power about him; the sort of light and scented air that surrounds only the obscenely wealthy, and it loaned him a stature nature hadn’t provided. His graying hair was immaculately coiled and coifed, hennaed into brilliant red and orange. His thick moustache remained a fine glossy black and its corners draped luxuriantly over full lips.
He took Seth’s face in his strong brown hands, and kissed each cheek fondly. “My, look at you. I swear you grow more beautiful every time I see you, but that’s my tragedy, I suppose and not yours.”
Turning sharply enough to cause a minor whirlwind of rich fabric, he faced the now silent household staff, clapped his hands and made shooing gestures at them, demanding, “Drinks! Didn’t you hear me? Cold drinks and something sweet.”
Zayed stood his ground, his dark eyes shrieking silent abuse from under lowered lids, his hands clasped dutifully at his back. Tamir had refused to enter the room in the midst of the furor, and waited by the door like a sad eyed hound who’d long lost the will to fight.
“Refreshments,” Seth mouthed, nodding to acknowledge the insult to his promus, and smiled as Zayed remade his face, leaving only the tightness in his lips to suggest his displeasure. Turning his full attention back to Drusus, he asked, “How was your journey mi Pater? Let me guess. Hot. Dry. Uncomfortable. Successful?”
“All of that, and more. Successful so far, at least. But things are changing dearest boy. The world is growing bigger, and we are too far away.”
“Too far from what? You’ve built your own paradise right here in the Arabian desert. You made Petra bloom.” From time to time his benefactor was taken with a dream of new horizons, or smitten with a certain town or city he had visited, but these whims were short lived and Seth knew to simply calm and reassure the older man. It was rare for him to return from a trade mission without a longing for greener pastures.
Drusus flagged a dismissive hand and twirled a finger through his curls, “I can’t take all the credit for that,” he purred, and Seth smiled fondly. “It is beautiful here, I know. But I’m getting too old for all this travel.” He was silent a moment, then rushed on with a shameless plea for flattery. “Am I getting too old for this?”
“Never too old. Where is it you think you want to be?”
“Oh Rome Darling, where else is there? Rome, where all the money and influence is. This place is a haven I know, but it’s so provincial. So damn provincial.”
“There’s money here, Dec. You are testament to that. There always has been and there always will be. Egypt, Assyria, Persia; your endlessly beloved Greeks; now Rome. All the empires come and go, and Petra remains. While the empire builders need spices from across the desert, and while you own the water....” The arguments made themselves and Seth had voiced them all before today.
“I hardly own the water. I only own some of the cisterns that hold it and the pipe works that channel it.” Drusus looked petulant, but there was more to his discontent than usual, he was too full of theatrical zeal, and Seth began to feel some concern. He was tense, the frown that crossed and re-crossed his brow was deep with unnamed sadness and his lips, when he paused, were pale and turned down.
“And, and, and....” Seth rolled a hand over all Drusus’ assets: the buildings, the businesses and the controlling interests, which would remain unmentioned. “Here, take a seat. Have a drink. Tell me what you’ve seen or done that’s made you feel unhappy with your lot.”
He had quietly taken his patron’s arm, turning him and leading him back through the cool deep shadows of the house, to the new annex. It was bright with natural light; desert breezes filtered through dripping veils of muslin, moistening and cooling the parched air, and making the room a small climatic wonder. Murals lined the plastered walls, and rich mosaics featuring Drusus’ favorite azure tiles covered the floors.
Every item on which the eye could rest, cast back color. Glass and tiles, crusted gems, bottles, boxes, cages, rich oils and fabrics, all warred in screaming discord and no single item stepped back modestly from the fray. Gold, silver and bronze shone everywhere, but rarely for the sake of its own beauty or value. Precious metals served only as frames and foils for the loudest, brightest and most unashamedly brilliant baubles.
Drusus allowed himself to be comforted, settling back into the soft cushions of a heavily carved cedar daybed.
Zayed appeared, as if by some silent miracle known only to butlers, and set a tray of rose water on the central tableau. Each colored goblet glistened with finely cut facets, and on a fretted silver saucer beside each drink, lay a tiny sweet jelly and a crisp hash cookie.
As Seth lay back, extending his long legs comfortably into the airy weave of a hammock, he sighed theatrically and reached for his own beverage. “Would you really leave this behind? The Nabateans are very particular about their secrets, Dec. While you live and prosper here among them, you’re welcome to enjoy the special little perks of controlling the spice trade; but do you think they’ll let you take their ambrosial liquids and Elysian medicaments off to the wide world? Think again.”
“My dearest, don’t lecture me on what our wonderful hosts will or won’t do for trade and wealth. I’m where I am today because, and only because, I understand so very well the Nabatean preoccupation with balancing secrecy and commerce.”
He sipped his drink and Seth looked away, staring into a glittering corner of the room, and into his memories. “You are where you are today because you made good choices in the flesh trade.”
“Only in the beginning.” Drusus reached to set the goblet down, slamming it too heavily onto the tray. “And such paltry wealth compared to what we have now. You more than anyone alive should be glad I prospered in the slave trade or you’d be dead in an arena somewhere.” Wiping droplets from his hand, he muttered; “Only slaves hate slavers, Seth.”
“They have the greatest cause, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.”
Drusus irritation was starting to take shape, and an uncomfortably niggling intuition grew at the back of Seth’s mind. If his patron’s most recent foray to the capital had brought him back into the temptations of buying and selling men, it was likely to be a conversation that would not end well for either of them….[continues]
As the line of camels ambled to a halt and knelt, grunting out foul smelling protest, Jaida gathered the folds of her abayah in close to her waist and peered around at shadows. The wide sky was still bright above; fading slowly from deep blue into mauves and golds, but the sun cast its light in long reaching beams that skimmed the desert surface and left the wadi huddled in the shade of its cliffs.
Around her men rushed and chattered, hauling the beasts to the ground and hastening to unload bolts of cargo strapped along their backs. The donkeys smelled water close and set up screeching choruses that echoed from the rock face, while a patient line of bearer boys stood forward with a convoy of litters.
“Step down now, my dear.”
The voice called her attention to the side of the animal she rode, and she let her shawl slip down over her shoulders as she accepted the hand offered for her support. Beside her, her sister turned and grimaced comically as she slid stiffly to the pebbly sand below. Jaida had no smile to return for the moment.
They had reached their destination, it seemed, and they were at last free of the rolling discomfort of the camel train. Dust had worked its way in through the layers of her clothing and caked on her chest and back. Grit chafed on her thighs as she took her first few steps, and she took a moment to stretch her spine, to twist and open her arms, before she gathered the shawl up over her hair and moved dutifully toward the line of litters.
Darkness was gathering more quickly now, and she checked along the line of kneeling camels, swiftly counting off her sisters, ensuring everyone was accounted for. Ahead were four small carpenta, each with six boys: two girls to a litter; and each of the small vehicles glittered richly in the fading light. Their new patron had money, at least. How much he knew of temple service and the demands of the life she and her sisters had been raised into, she had yet to learn.
Jaida held back, watching as each of the girls hurried in behind their beaded curtains and the boys lifted their load. When all seven were ensconced, she too slipped into the richly cushioned comfort of her litter. Beside her Ianthe murmured prayers and held back the curtains to watch as the bearers carried them forward through al-Siq, and on into Rekeem; the Rose Stone City called by the Greeks and Romans, Petra.
Above them the evening sky made a bright slit, but the dark sandstone walls drank in the torchlight and crowded together claustrophobically. On and on they wove between the towering walls, soft sand on the paving stones crunching under the feet of the bearers, and the wooden frame of their litter creaking under the strain.
Jaida studied the walls in silence, waiting for each burning torch as they passed along the defile, where God blocks sprang from niches, and crevasses reached up into the darkness above. Her study was a device to calm the racing of her heart and mind. It had worked well enough to have her fascinated, and she jolted slightly when Ianthe spoke.
“It’s done, then, isn’t it? We’re here. For better or worse, we’re here.”
“We’re here,” she agreed quietly....
-
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
READING AND WRITING
Hello dear friends,
Today I procrastinated by reading web fiction. There is some really excellent fiction out there and up for grabs. But woe for the story which just doesn't fit.
I listed my online novels with Web Ficiton Guide, but they haven't been reviewed, only rated so far [many thanks Linda]. The editor who took the time to rate them does not enjoy romantic angst, and who can blame her. I don't much like it myself.
They carry the stigma of the tag 'Historical Romance' and that is not a popular tag in new online novels. What is popular? Ghoulies and ghosties and long leggedy beasties; blood suckers and lycanthropes; aliens and ogres. There are elves and goblins, swordsmen and magi, halflings, demons and angels. Multitudes of all the above, in any combination you could desire. [Most templates available at TV.com]
So then, to the free online romance guides - where the pages are pink or lilac; you could just sip some moet and nibble a ferrero rocher; provided you own a satin robe and feather boa. And romantics, one and all it seems, love romance as described by HM&B. Deviation is discouraged. And again, who can blame them, when the formula romance novel outsells all the other genres clumped together, including the legions named above.
Also, serialised fiction seems to be enormously popular. I delighted in that irony.
Those who know Barbara Cartland will know that she dictated 1000 words a day, completing a novel every two months. She didn't revise or rewrite, it was fine as it came off the tongue. If she'd had a blog she needn't have waited two months, she could have done as they do now, and published as she went.
I dare say much could be added regarding the quality and quanity of her work, its popularity and literary merit. Of course, she was paid for her efforts, and more could be said about that, too.
I read some forums here and there on the web, too. Whenever I see someone launching some abuse, or eager to tell the world how much they know, I wonder if they ever ask themselves if they know how much they don't know....
Emails were written today; the dogs were bathed; a shopping list was compiled, though why I don't know, since five listed items equals 72 in the trolley; and a grand total of 524 words were written. I make a 1000wrd/day rule, and I'm breaking that already. Discipline. Ha.
Tomorrow is April 1st. What a great idea, to celebrate the fools of the world. More of it, I say. Well done that fool! Here here.
Enough,
regards
Letitia...
Today I procrastinated by reading web fiction. There is some really excellent fiction out there and up for grabs. But woe for the story which just doesn't fit.
I listed my online novels with Web Ficiton Guide, but they haven't been reviewed, only rated so far [many thanks Linda]. The editor who took the time to rate them does not enjoy romantic angst, and who can blame her. I don't much like it myself.
They carry the stigma of the tag 'Historical Romance' and that is not a popular tag in new online novels. What is popular? Ghoulies and ghosties and long leggedy beasties; blood suckers and lycanthropes; aliens and ogres. There are elves and goblins, swordsmen and magi, halflings, demons and angels. Multitudes of all the above, in any combination you could desire. [Most templates available at TV.com]
So then, to the free online romance guides - where the pages are pink or lilac; you could just sip some moet and nibble a ferrero rocher; provided you own a satin robe and feather boa. And romantics, one and all it seems, love romance as described by HM&B. Deviation is discouraged. And again, who can blame them, when the formula romance novel outsells all the other genres clumped together, including the legions named above.
Also, serialised fiction seems to be enormously popular. I delighted in that irony.
Those who know Barbara Cartland will know that she dictated 1000 words a day, completing a novel every two months. She didn't revise or rewrite, it was fine as it came off the tongue. If she'd had a blog she needn't have waited two months, she could have done as they do now, and published as she went.
I dare say much could be added regarding the quality and quanity of her work, its popularity and literary merit. Of course, she was paid for her efforts, and more could be said about that, too.
I read some forums here and there on the web, too. Whenever I see someone launching some abuse, or eager to tell the world how much they know, I wonder if they ever ask themselves if they know how much they don't know....
Emails were written today; the dogs were bathed; a shopping list was compiled, though why I don't know, since five listed items equals 72 in the trolley; and a grand total of 524 words were written. I make a 1000wrd/day rule, and I'm breaking that already. Discipline. Ha.
Tomorrow is April 1st. What a great idea, to celebrate the fools of the world. More of it, I say. Well done that fool! Here here.
Enough,
regards
Letitia...
Sunday, March 28, 2010
eNOVEL No 2 - BRITANNIA
Yes, more procrastination.
BRITANNIA is now online and complete.
Yet another link to add to the growing number....http://letitiacoynebritannia.weebly.com/
BRITANNIA
Happy reading.
Cheers,
Letitia.
BRITANNIA is now online and complete.
Yet another link to add to the growing number....http://letitiacoynebritannia.weebly.com/
BRITANNIA
Happy reading.
Cheers,
Letitia.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
WEB NOVELS - eFICTION
-
So now HISPANIA has its own website.
Letitia Coyne eFiction
Easy to do, too. Very basic but it meets the need. I am not technically gifted at all and things got a bit frustrating, but it seems online reading is growing in popularity.
I notice a lot of the new fiction is teen based, or young adult, so I'm guessing the people who are most at home with screens and keyboards are the ones most often writing and reading the novels.
I chose HISPANIA at random and now I wonder if it is worth the time and effort to convert all of the stories. And wondering out loud to avoid other tasks. Maybe.
What I should be doing is starting something new, not wrapping up in a cocoon of familiarity and refusing to pop a nose out into the unknown. OR playing with my pup who brings his toy to me and sits, looking hopeful.
c'est la vie.
-
So now HISPANIA has its own website.
Letitia Coyne eFiction
Easy to do, too. Very basic but it meets the need. I am not technically gifted at all and things got a bit frustrating, but it seems online reading is growing in popularity.
I notice a lot of the new fiction is teen based, or young adult, so I'm guessing the people who are most at home with screens and keyboards are the ones most often writing and reading the novels.
I chose HISPANIA at random and now I wonder if it is worth the time and effort to convert all of the stories. And wondering out loud to avoid other tasks. Maybe.
What I should be doing is starting something new, not wrapping up in a cocoon of familiarity and refusing to pop a nose out into the unknown. OR playing with my pup who brings his toy to me and sits, looking hopeful.
c'est la vie.
-
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
BRITANNIA
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184PAGES
102000 WORDS
945KB
DOWNLOAD LINK
https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
BOOK ONE AD78
Maia and her step-brother Cilo were raised in an opulent villa in the Seine Valley, by their vile step-mother.
Cilo enlists in the army in Britannia at fifteen.
Lucius, Luc, is commander of an auxiliary cavalry unit of Legio XX, Valeria Victrix. The son of a Caledonian mercenary who joined Rome, he and his four brothers are renowned soldiers of great ability and bravery.
At 25 he has served ten years, is looking at another fifteen, and has had enough of killing. Exhausted and battle fatigued after the brutal AD77 Cambrian campaign, he has been weighing up his chances of survival as a deserter.
Maia is married off to her stepbrother, but is abandoned again when he returns to his post. Seizing her chance to escape, she joins an exclusive group of travelling priestesses on their way to Britannia. But they can only take her some of the way, and she finds herself moving through a complex web of lies and deceptions, where everyone she meets has a separate agenda.
If she can only trust Lucius, he can take her to her husband.
Everything she knows about the world will change, if she can survive the journey.
-
184PAGES
102000 WORDS
945KB
DOWNLOAD LINK
https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
BOOK ONE AD78
Maia and her step-brother Cilo were raised in an opulent villa in the Seine Valley, by their vile step-mother.
Cilo enlists in the army in Britannia at fifteen.
Lucius, Luc, is commander of an auxiliary cavalry unit of Legio XX, Valeria Victrix. The son of a Caledonian mercenary who joined Rome, he and his four brothers are renowned soldiers of great ability and bravery.
At 25 he has served ten years, is looking at another fifteen, and has had enough of killing. Exhausted and battle fatigued after the brutal AD77 Cambrian campaign, he has been weighing up his chances of survival as a deserter.
Maia is married off to her stepbrother, but is abandoned again when he returns to his post. Seizing her chance to escape, she joins an exclusive group of travelling priestesses on their way to Britannia. But they can only take her some of the way, and she finds herself moving through a complex web of lies and deceptions, where everyone she meets has a separate agenda.
If she can only trust Lucius, he can take her to her husband.
Everything she knows about the world will change, if she can survive the journey.
-
BRITANNIA - SAMPLE CHAPTER
-
DOWNLOAD LINK
- https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
Full chapter available in PDF, part chapter below
PART CHAPTER.
GALLIA BELGICA AD77
Lyvia cast a long critical gaze over the bride. In a soft pale blue tunic, her hair parted and bound in knots of red muslin and her flammeum veiling her head, the girl was at least presentable. After all, she needed no status or breeding to fill the niche history would set for her. She would do well enough.
Maia rubbed at imagined stains on her palms. She had eaten little over the last few days and slept even less. Now her quaking knees woke tremors and aftershocks that rippled through her, prickling rashes of sweat and jostling her empty stomach.
But it was not fear; she had no fear of a union with Cilo. She loved him dearly; as she had from the first day they met, as she had when they grew up together. As fearful reputation as he had as a soldier, she had known only his love, his protection and his ready laugh.
Neither was it from joy. As much as she loved him, it was as she had always known him. She loved him as her brother.
“Why are you just standing there, child?” Her stepmother’s words were, as always, like grinding ice: crisp, distinct, frigid.
Hesitant tears ran across her lower lashes and she blinked away their indecision. She wanted to say, ‘My mother should be here’, but this now passed for a mother’s love and warmth. These cold, vulturine features and this iceberg crack and sibilance were all the comfort she could call. “Has Cilo dressed?” she asked quietly.
“Of course. He and the lads are still celebrating the new vintage. If you aren’t soon ready there will be none left for the feast.”
That was unlikely. Lyvia had planned this day too well. Even its inauspicious coincidence with the festival of Vinalia Rustica had been slated well before the shocking news was broken to the bride.
Maia slipped on her russet sandals and tried again to straighten the knot at her waist. She needed to wash her hands again, but now there would be no more time. She gently lifted her hand wrought circlet of wild dianthus and amaranthus, setting it carefully so it held the veil in place over the massed intricacies of her hair. “Go on out, then,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Lyvia needed no second prompt. She swept from the room leaving small breezes to giggle in her perfumed wake.
Feeling carefully at her breast, Maia drew out a tiny leather pouch and held in her palm a small silver coin. Her mother had placed this same coin in her own shoe on the day she married Bassus. Maia had no clear recall of the custom or its meaning, she was too long away from her homeland, but it was a tie, a tiny gesture that brought her mother closer on this day of all days.
Lifting the long, narrow tunic out of the way, she slipped the little coin into her sandal under her heel and gathered herself to walk through the door into her wedding.
Cilo might have dressed formally at some time that morning, but the day’s celebrations left him more than moderately dishevelled.
There was never any chance he would tame the wild mass of jet curls that bunched around his ears and tumbled down the leather muscles of his ornamental cuirass. Dressed in uniform, although technically he was no longer a soldier, his beauty was breathtaking.
He stood as he saw his bride enter the hall. His full lips, for which he had long ago been named Cilo, parted as he smiled tight reassurance at her and teeth as white as new chalk shone against his sun-brown skin.
Unsought maturity shone from serious green eyes, and his forehead bunched under the weight of concerns too heavy for his years.
Maia froze on the spot in the doorway. Nothing would move. She felt fragile, her bones brittle, as if her dread had robbed her of some essential fluency. Her feet seemed changed into the hard baked clay of the tiles. Then her trembling knees. Her hips.
All eyes came to her as an expectant hush drowned the room. She could see the faces; hard, earth-brown men in battle dress. Lyvia and Bassus too: he with a broad smile over many proud chins; her with the sharp efficiency of flesh that showed her meanness of spirit as clearly as his volume showed the generosity of his.
The rush of blood in her ears was deafening; her chest was tight as if her ribs were iron bands, cold and constricting. Her cheeks burned. A whimper escaped and she forced her sticky palms down her thigh, smoothing the soft flannel of her tunic.
Tiberia stood across the room at the low tableau, her broad smile pleading, willing Maia to step forward and take her place for the ceremony. A servant as pronuba, another of Lyvia’s slights, but not one Maia could take too much too heart. The old domestic was kind and warm, as matronly as anyone Maia had known.
Cilo stepped forward with his hand extended, as if his touch could compensate for her deficiencies. Listing slightly to the left, he steadied himself on the edge of a table and walked to where she stood.
“You look beautiful.” He kissed the back of her fingers, where the iron band of their engagement lay dark against her pale skin, and bowed his head, then brought his eyes up to hers, pleading. In the instant they held, Maia glimpsed torment as gaunt despair, then they fled under heavy lashes. Black curls shook away the moment of crisis and Maia drew a deep breath for them both as he led her tenderly toward the dais.
Given her chance at last, Tiberia seized their joined hands. Joy trembled through all the comfortable excesses of her aging frame and as carefully as her bursting joy permitted, she spoke her solemn words aloud. “Do you come willingly to your husband?” Her eyebrows leapt up her forehead and she bobbed her face at Maia in an exaggerated encouragement to speak.
Maia looked up at the man beside her. In Rome, in Pompeii, they would make mosaics to capture his beauty. He was glorious, godlike, and he held himself taut, his determined profile offering her neither explanation nor reassurance.
They had both come to this ceremony willingly and yet there was no mistaking the desperation that moved behind his eyes. If he had been presented other options, if choices were open to him that seemed riper with promise, she had been given no such license.
He was her only hope. And the knowledge that her husband came to her bleak and despondent, maybe even resentful, trampled the last embers of her courage into ash. It lay thick and bitter on her tongue, drying all her promises and her dreams. Slow breaths dragged into her chest. She could not have forced herself to run if there had been a sanctuary to find.
He was her only hope, and she was tethered to him there as surely as if the ring she wore was still the iron shackles of a slave. He was her rock, her only safe place. With her hand crushed into his by Tiberia’s eager claw, she spoke, “When and where you are Gaius, then and there I am Gaia.”
The matron of honor could control her delight no longer. Surging forward she deluged the couple, crushing Maia between the warmth of an old servant’s ample bosom and her husband’s hard leanness. Where her cheek pressed against his chest, a purple splash of the fine new wine darkened the leather so it seemed his heart was brimming overfull, or broken and bleeding.
Once free of the vice like grip of their pronuba, the couple found their seat before the tableau. Maia moved under a dry veil of grief. Her ears were red hot, burning with old shames, and a persistent hum droned the sounds from around her. Somewhere deep inside, her soul sang ancient keening songs in a language she could not quite recall. Against the quiet strength of her husband’s grip, she felt herself gently rocking.
The Auspex was an older man; Maia did not recall having seen his face in the days since the garrison had arrived. He wore the insignia of the XXth and his bearing was slow and deeply serious. He cleared his throat to hurry Tiberia from her place in the middle of the ceremony, then solemnly mumbled his way through the incantations to Jupiter. He offered the grain cakes, broke them and presented them to the bride and groom to eat.
From her fingers Cilo ate the offering and she from his, but when she searched his face for empathy, or some kind of vicarious fortitude, she saw only wine addled emotion which could have been pain, or humiliation.
He refused to meet her eyes, fixing his blurred vision on the Auspex as he brought out the Tabilae Nuptiales, and placed it before them to sign. Then in his beautiful hand, the script of a man destined to be senator, he crafted his name. Oppius Pompeius Bassus. Beside his words, she set the stylus, trying to breath calmly enough to settle her nerves and steady her trembling fingers, and wrote: Maia Pompeii. His wife, sempeternum.
When he brought his face to hers at last, his lovely, haunted eyes were brimming over. Something deep inside him gave way suddenly and he seemed to sag, then caught himself, smiled and squeezed her hand as he drew her to himself slowly and kissed her lightly on the lips. So they marked their union in the silent wash of tears.
DOWNLOAD LINK
- https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
Full chapter available in PDF, part chapter below
PART CHAPTER.
GALLIA BELGICA AD77
Lyvia cast a long critical gaze over the bride. In a soft pale blue tunic, her hair parted and bound in knots of red muslin and her flammeum veiling her head, the girl was at least presentable. After all, she needed no status or breeding to fill the niche history would set for her. She would do well enough.
Maia rubbed at imagined stains on her palms. She had eaten little over the last few days and slept even less. Now her quaking knees woke tremors and aftershocks that rippled through her, prickling rashes of sweat and jostling her empty stomach.
But it was not fear; she had no fear of a union with Cilo. She loved him dearly; as she had from the first day they met, as she had when they grew up together. As fearful reputation as he had as a soldier, she had known only his love, his protection and his ready laugh.
Neither was it from joy. As much as she loved him, it was as she had always known him. She loved him as her brother.
“Why are you just standing there, child?” Her stepmother’s words were, as always, like grinding ice: crisp, distinct, frigid.
Hesitant tears ran across her lower lashes and she blinked away their indecision. She wanted to say, ‘My mother should be here’, but this now passed for a mother’s love and warmth. These cold, vulturine features and this iceberg crack and sibilance were all the comfort she could call. “Has Cilo dressed?” she asked quietly.
“Of course. He and the lads are still celebrating the new vintage. If you aren’t soon ready there will be none left for the feast.”
That was unlikely. Lyvia had planned this day too well. Even its inauspicious coincidence with the festival of Vinalia Rustica had been slated well before the shocking news was broken to the bride.
Maia slipped on her russet sandals and tried again to straighten the knot at her waist. She needed to wash her hands again, but now there would be no more time. She gently lifted her hand wrought circlet of wild dianthus and amaranthus, setting it carefully so it held the veil in place over the massed intricacies of her hair. “Go on out, then,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Lyvia needed no second prompt. She swept from the room leaving small breezes to giggle in her perfumed wake.
Feeling carefully at her breast, Maia drew out a tiny leather pouch and held in her palm a small silver coin. Her mother had placed this same coin in her own shoe on the day she married Bassus. Maia had no clear recall of the custom or its meaning, she was too long away from her homeland, but it was a tie, a tiny gesture that brought her mother closer on this day of all days.
Lifting the long, narrow tunic out of the way, she slipped the little coin into her sandal under her heel and gathered herself to walk through the door into her wedding.
Cilo might have dressed formally at some time that morning, but the day’s celebrations left him more than moderately dishevelled.
There was never any chance he would tame the wild mass of jet curls that bunched around his ears and tumbled down the leather muscles of his ornamental cuirass. Dressed in uniform, although technically he was no longer a soldier, his beauty was breathtaking.
He stood as he saw his bride enter the hall. His full lips, for which he had long ago been named Cilo, parted as he smiled tight reassurance at her and teeth as white as new chalk shone against his sun-brown skin.
Unsought maturity shone from serious green eyes, and his forehead bunched under the weight of concerns too heavy for his years.
Maia froze on the spot in the doorway. Nothing would move. She felt fragile, her bones brittle, as if her dread had robbed her of some essential fluency. Her feet seemed changed into the hard baked clay of the tiles. Then her trembling knees. Her hips.
All eyes came to her as an expectant hush drowned the room. She could see the faces; hard, earth-brown men in battle dress. Lyvia and Bassus too: he with a broad smile over many proud chins; her with the sharp efficiency of flesh that showed her meanness of spirit as clearly as his volume showed the generosity of his.
The rush of blood in her ears was deafening; her chest was tight as if her ribs were iron bands, cold and constricting. Her cheeks burned. A whimper escaped and she forced her sticky palms down her thigh, smoothing the soft flannel of her tunic.
Tiberia stood across the room at the low tableau, her broad smile pleading, willing Maia to step forward and take her place for the ceremony. A servant as pronuba, another of Lyvia’s slights, but not one Maia could take too much too heart. The old domestic was kind and warm, as matronly as anyone Maia had known.
Cilo stepped forward with his hand extended, as if his touch could compensate for her deficiencies. Listing slightly to the left, he steadied himself on the edge of a table and walked to where she stood.
“You look beautiful.” He kissed the back of her fingers, where the iron band of their engagement lay dark against her pale skin, and bowed his head, then brought his eyes up to hers, pleading. In the instant they held, Maia glimpsed torment as gaunt despair, then they fled under heavy lashes. Black curls shook away the moment of crisis and Maia drew a deep breath for them both as he led her tenderly toward the dais.
Given her chance at last, Tiberia seized their joined hands. Joy trembled through all the comfortable excesses of her aging frame and as carefully as her bursting joy permitted, she spoke her solemn words aloud. “Do you come willingly to your husband?” Her eyebrows leapt up her forehead and she bobbed her face at Maia in an exaggerated encouragement to speak.
Maia looked up at the man beside her. In Rome, in Pompeii, they would make mosaics to capture his beauty. He was glorious, godlike, and he held himself taut, his determined profile offering her neither explanation nor reassurance.
They had both come to this ceremony willingly and yet there was no mistaking the desperation that moved behind his eyes. If he had been presented other options, if choices were open to him that seemed riper with promise, she had been given no such license.
He was her only hope. And the knowledge that her husband came to her bleak and despondent, maybe even resentful, trampled the last embers of her courage into ash. It lay thick and bitter on her tongue, drying all her promises and her dreams. Slow breaths dragged into her chest. She could not have forced herself to run if there had been a sanctuary to find.
He was her only hope, and she was tethered to him there as surely as if the ring she wore was still the iron shackles of a slave. He was her rock, her only safe place. With her hand crushed into his by Tiberia’s eager claw, she spoke, “When and where you are Gaius, then and there I am Gaia.”
The matron of honor could control her delight no longer. Surging forward she deluged the couple, crushing Maia between the warmth of an old servant’s ample bosom and her husband’s hard leanness. Where her cheek pressed against his chest, a purple splash of the fine new wine darkened the leather so it seemed his heart was brimming overfull, or broken and bleeding.
Once free of the vice like grip of their pronuba, the couple found their seat before the tableau. Maia moved under a dry veil of grief. Her ears were red hot, burning with old shames, and a persistent hum droned the sounds from around her. Somewhere deep inside, her soul sang ancient keening songs in a language she could not quite recall. Against the quiet strength of her husband’s grip, she felt herself gently rocking.
The Auspex was an older man; Maia did not recall having seen his face in the days since the garrison had arrived. He wore the insignia of the XXth and his bearing was slow and deeply serious. He cleared his throat to hurry Tiberia from her place in the middle of the ceremony, then solemnly mumbled his way through the incantations to Jupiter. He offered the grain cakes, broke them and presented them to the bride and groom to eat.
From her fingers Cilo ate the offering and she from his, but when she searched his face for empathy, or some kind of vicarious fortitude, she saw only wine addled emotion which could have been pain, or humiliation.
He refused to meet her eyes, fixing his blurred vision on the Auspex as he brought out the Tabilae Nuptiales, and placed it before them to sign. Then in his beautiful hand, the script of a man destined to be senator, he crafted his name. Oppius Pompeius Bassus. Beside his words, she set the stylus, trying to breath calmly enough to settle her nerves and steady her trembling fingers, and wrote: Maia Pompeii. His wife, sempeternum.
When he brought his face to hers at last, his lovely, haunted eyes were brimming over. Something deep inside him gave way suddenly and he seemed to sag, then caught himself, smiled and squeezed her hand as he drew her to himself slowly and kissed her lightly on the lips. So they marked their union in the silent wash of tears.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
EMAIL COMMENTS
Hi again,
Here are some selected comments from the mail. Please do email or post comments on the site.
I downloaded “Hispania” and really enjoyed reading it. I came back today to get“Caledonia”.
Where is the first book, and where is it set?
CaroleP. Humberside, UK
[The first book in the series is set in Britannia, and is still being edited and converted. Shouldn’t be too long, I hope. L]
…because I am Pagan and have not found many stories that present the Celts as you have. I hope the other stories concentrate more on the history of the Druids, but I loved how I could not guess how the story would end.
Sue [dubheye]
[Sadly, the detailed history had to be cut back. Also, there is much more myth and urban legend out there concerning Celts, Picts, Druids, etc than there is hard historical data. L]
Loved Hispania, thanks.
Suze.
[Thank you. L]
If I may make a suggestion, don't just give your books away. You worked hard at writing them. Publish them yourself. It's easier than you think and you might even make a dollar or two for your efforts. Your books may not fit the "traditional" publisher’s format for romance/historical fiction stories, but there is literally a whole world of readers out there with a wide variety of tastes. Caledonia and Hispania may just be what they've been waiting for…..
People are hungry for good stories and e-books make it easier for indie authors to get their books out there. You've come this far with your books. Don't stop now. Go the last few meters and reap the benefits….
george (aka beteljooz over at Bookcrossing.com)
George Willis
author of THE MEASURE OF A MAN
in the 2009 Black Quill Award-winning
and 2009 Bram Stoker Award-nominated anthology MIDNIGHT WALK
[Booklovers, check out Bookcrossing.com. Thanks, George, I’ll look into it some more.]
Here are some selected comments from the mail. Please do email or post comments on the site.
I downloaded “Hispania” and really enjoyed reading it. I came back today to get“Caledonia”.
Where is the first book, and where is it set?
CaroleP. Humberside, UK
[The first book in the series is set in Britannia, and is still being edited and converted. Shouldn’t be too long, I hope. L]
…because I am Pagan and have not found many stories that present the Celts as you have. I hope the other stories concentrate more on the history of the Druids, but I loved how I could not guess how the story would end.
Sue [dubheye]
[Sadly, the detailed history had to be cut back. Also, there is much more myth and urban legend out there concerning Celts, Picts, Druids, etc than there is hard historical data. L]
Loved Hispania, thanks.
Suze.
[Thank you. L]
If I may make a suggestion, don't just give your books away. You worked hard at writing them. Publish them yourself. It's easier than you think and you might even make a dollar or two for your efforts. Your books may not fit the "traditional" publisher’s format for romance/historical fiction stories, but there is literally a whole world of readers out there with a wide variety of tastes. Caledonia and Hispania may just be what they've been waiting for…..
People are hungry for good stories and e-books make it easier for indie authors to get their books out there. You've come this far with your books. Don't stop now. Go the last few meters and reap the benefits….
george (aka beteljooz over at Bookcrossing.com)
George Willis
author of THE MEASURE OF A MAN
in the 2009 Black Quill Award-winning
and 2009 Bram Stoker Award-nominated anthology MIDNIGHT WALK
[Booklovers, check out Bookcrossing.com. Thanks, George, I’ll look into it some more.]
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Thanks -
Wow, well, thank you for the positive comments and mail.
The stories here have been shopped around, but the problem is not to do with persistance. They are basic pulp fiction, which means they go to a very specific genre market, and that market has a very specific requirement when it comes to formula.
Romance novels have guidelines, but they also have a sound and a rhythm peculiar to them. Their characters are set, their pace is set, their dialogue rings the same - and these stories do not match the form. I proved to myself the adage - "Write what you enjoy reading" - and I do not enjoy reading Romance.
The same then applies to historical fiction. People who enjoy historical fiction really enjoy the fine detail of the period in question. Sites, smells, textures. In order to try to meet the criteria for Romance, I only sketched in the history. ( And took some perverse pleasure in distorting things to match the expectations of the Great Unwashed.)
Here's the thing.
There are seven of these little novels all up and they are not marketable. They represent a total of two years work and I could bin them, or give them away. Even if they don't meet publisher's criteria, there might be some folk who just enjoy the read. And they are worth what you pay for them here.
Stories also date, and already these have been at the bottom of the drawer for three or four years. Tastes in reading change and writing styles change to fit the market. At present the trend seems to be toward 'Dick and Dora, Nip and Fluff' simplicity - and readers are looking for strong, direct prose. Again, these stories are overwritten; but then I like Steinman, Wagner, Donaldson and Van Gogh.
I hope I answered all the queries, there.
Once again, thank you all for choosing to read the stories and for giving feedback. If you enjoyed them, please pass them along to friends.
Back to proofing and converting the files.
Best wishes to all
Letitia.
The stories here have been shopped around, but the problem is not to do with persistance. They are basic pulp fiction, which means they go to a very specific genre market, and that market has a very specific requirement when it comes to formula.
Romance novels have guidelines, but they also have a sound and a rhythm peculiar to them. Their characters are set, their pace is set, their dialogue rings the same - and these stories do not match the form. I proved to myself the adage - "Write what you enjoy reading" - and I do not enjoy reading Romance.
The same then applies to historical fiction. People who enjoy historical fiction really enjoy the fine detail of the period in question. Sites, smells, textures. In order to try to meet the criteria for Romance, I only sketched in the history. ( And took some perverse pleasure in distorting things to match the expectations of the Great Unwashed.)
Here's the thing.
There are seven of these little novels all up and they are not marketable. They represent a total of two years work and I could bin them, or give them away. Even if they don't meet publisher's criteria, there might be some folk who just enjoy the read. And they are worth what you pay for them here.
Stories also date, and already these have been at the bottom of the drawer for three or four years. Tastes in reading change and writing styles change to fit the market. At present the trend seems to be toward 'Dick and Dora, Nip and Fluff' simplicity - and readers are looking for strong, direct prose. Again, these stories are overwritten; but then I like Steinman, Wagner, Donaldson and Van Gogh.
I hope I answered all the queries, there.
Once again, thank you all for choosing to read the stories and for giving feedback. If you enjoyed them, please pass them along to friends.
Back to proofing and converting the files.
Best wishes to all
Letitia.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
CALEDONIA - SAMPLE CHAPTER
-
DOWNLOAD LINK
- https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
Full chapter available in PDF, part chapter below
PART CHAPTER.
(Prologue)
RIDGE FORTS, CALEDONIA, Autumn AD83
Motes danced in the rising heat of the fire and fled into thatched shadows high above. Mania shone from the skin and wide eyes of the gathered band of strangers, throwing firelight back across the room and filling the air with the rank odor of cold sweat and apprehension.
Calgacus knelt, sitting back onto his feet, and held the attention of everyone in the room with the quiet assurance of a man who had the courage to meet their convictions. “What hope do they have?” he asked quietly. “We have the numbers, the heart and the balls.”
A snigger ran through the assembly and there was a general nod as the truth of his words was acknowledged.
“The Ninth Legion! Britons have bested them before today. They’ve slunk back behind their walls and trenches. Rome has divided her numbers and spread herself too thin. And worst, they considered us as weak as they are themselves. They’ve believed we have no heart to face the chill of our winter, because they have none.”
Again a low murmur of agreement swept through the room and he slowly turned his head, scanning each face, meeting each eye. “They cling to the warmth of the coastal lowlands. They fear the wilds of our mountains and forests, but these are home to us, and the spirits of our fathers and the blood of our ancestors are already on this land. The wilds of our island hold no such fears for us. We cannot help but be victorious tonight.”
Brinnie pulled her attention from the leader and watched the mug she filled froth and spill over. There was no doubting him. There was sense in every word.
The men who’d gathered under this roof had come from far and wide, and with each of them, a band of followers. They had no kin ties and no common land, only hatred of Rome, the invaders who would enslave them all. Talk had come down with them of the fleet of great vessels that had surveyed the shores and carried the might and terror of empire as far as her own mother’s lands, as far as Craig Phadrig itself.
Against the wall by the curtained doorway her husband crouched, his eyes afire with the need upon them, his face set in the mask of calm that lay between courage and acceptance, and in it she read his mortality.
The time for fear and caution had passed. Men from all over the Caledonian mountains had rallied to the call of a leader, and the clans had one purpose. To fight or die for their freedom. And tonight would be the beginning of the end for the foe. The Romans who slept in the glen below would die with the knowledge that this was a land they would never own.
Around her the noise of assent was rising as the leader roused the men with stirring words. Restlessness was churning in the flesh that packed in around the fire, and she had to concentrate again on the mug before her as it swished and waved, lifting her jug back to keep from spilling ale over the packed earth of the floor.
“So to it.” The cry was sharp and she turned again to face the charismatic figure who held them all in his hand. “Tonight we have a full third of their number lying drunk, with their necks extended. Those who want to sit with the old and the infirm; those who want to hide beneath the beds of their children; those who want to live to tell the story as if it was their own, stay behind. Those who want to rush their blood to the glory of our homeland, rally now. Now the time is right.”
A hand touched hers and Brinnie gasped, spinning her attention to her jug, snatching her fingers from the contact as if she’d been stung.
She met the eyes of a priest or a mystic, pale and searching.
In the shadows his long hair was dark, but where the fire caught in its wild tufts and lightened the ragged curls of his beard, it showed as red as blood. Rich deep auburn beneath, and bleached to dark chestnut by lime or neglect.
An odorous fleece jerkin, its collar spreading into a wide cape down over his shoulders, added to sense of fanatical disarray. There was a haunted look about him; the suggestion of madness born of too many months exposed to the elements.
In that he was not alone. Many of the men who’d rallied here had travelled and few had access to warm beds or hearthfires. Just as they did, he wore a heavy woolen kilt over leather brecks and his fur-lined boots laced from his toes to his knee.
But his eyes were his alone. In the moment that they held hers, she caught his sense of isolation. He was a man alone and self-contained; caught up as may be in the need that was upon the land, but somehow untouched. And yet he’d noticed her.
If she had done more than step up to refill his ale; if she had flung the jug out to douse the heat of his eyes; or if she had found herself staring into the shadows that she sensed in the lunatic frankness of his gaze, there might be reason for her discomfort.
But she hadn’t.
And still her pulse pounded at her ears. And the fire had no bearing on the heat that rose in her cheeks. It was as if he’d looked at her, and found her standing naked.
Thick lashes dropped over the aberrant fire in his eyes as he looked away, and the fingers that had burned hers hovered over the mouth of his cup. “No more,” he breathed, and Brinnie stepped back, then back again.....(continues)
...With casual ease, three forms broke from the stream of men and slipped off into the darkness of the treeline. Their horses were tethered back into the woods away from the general hubbub, and in the darkness they moved with increasing speed.
Of the twins, the second spoke with the sort of clipped abbreviation that only a brother might understand, and that in mumbled whispers. “North four leagues, south three. But I say north.”
“North,” the first agreed. “South to Dalginross there’ll be no one to respond but infantry. Up to Inchtuthil and the alae. Without cavalry there isn’t anyone’s got a chance to get back here in time.”
“North.” The ragged mystic threw himself up into the saddle and clenched his fingers down through the thick auburn of his beard. “And a bloodbath either way.”
It was agreed before the third man had mounted and the brothers moved in hunched silence down the hillside, opening their horses to a full stretch, running for the lives of the sleeping soldiers of the Ninth Hispanic Legion.
For eight months the brothers had lived in the turbulent surge of a nation gathering toward war. Not as they had for the years until now, from behind the walls and trenches of the Legionary defenses. Not as soldiers of the auxiliary cavalry. Not as part of the relentless, crushing, forward movement of the Roman Empire. This time they’d lived as men who’d slipped without a ripple into the pool.
For eight months they had lived as spies among their mother’s people.
DOWNLOAD LINK
- https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
Full chapter available in PDF, part chapter below
PART CHAPTER.
(Prologue)
RIDGE FORTS, CALEDONIA, Autumn AD83
Motes danced in the rising heat of the fire and fled into thatched shadows high above. Mania shone from the skin and wide eyes of the gathered band of strangers, throwing firelight back across the room and filling the air with the rank odor of cold sweat and apprehension.
Calgacus knelt, sitting back onto his feet, and held the attention of everyone in the room with the quiet assurance of a man who had the courage to meet their convictions. “What hope do they have?” he asked quietly. “We have the numbers, the heart and the balls.”
A snigger ran through the assembly and there was a general nod as the truth of his words was acknowledged.
“The Ninth Legion! Britons have bested them before today. They’ve slunk back behind their walls and trenches. Rome has divided her numbers and spread herself too thin. And worst, they considered us as weak as they are themselves. They’ve believed we have no heart to face the chill of our winter, because they have none.”
Again a low murmur of agreement swept through the room and he slowly turned his head, scanning each face, meeting each eye. “They cling to the warmth of the coastal lowlands. They fear the wilds of our mountains and forests, but these are home to us, and the spirits of our fathers and the blood of our ancestors are already on this land. The wilds of our island hold no such fears for us. We cannot help but be victorious tonight.”
Brinnie pulled her attention from the leader and watched the mug she filled froth and spill over. There was no doubting him. There was sense in every word.
The men who’d gathered under this roof had come from far and wide, and with each of them, a band of followers. They had no kin ties and no common land, only hatred of Rome, the invaders who would enslave them all. Talk had come down with them of the fleet of great vessels that had surveyed the shores and carried the might and terror of empire as far as her own mother’s lands, as far as Craig Phadrig itself.
Against the wall by the curtained doorway her husband crouched, his eyes afire with the need upon them, his face set in the mask of calm that lay between courage and acceptance, and in it she read his mortality.
The time for fear and caution had passed. Men from all over the Caledonian mountains had rallied to the call of a leader, and the clans had one purpose. To fight or die for their freedom. And tonight would be the beginning of the end for the foe. The Romans who slept in the glen below would die with the knowledge that this was a land they would never own.
Around her the noise of assent was rising as the leader roused the men with stirring words. Restlessness was churning in the flesh that packed in around the fire, and she had to concentrate again on the mug before her as it swished and waved, lifting her jug back to keep from spilling ale over the packed earth of the floor.
“So to it.” The cry was sharp and she turned again to face the charismatic figure who held them all in his hand. “Tonight we have a full third of their number lying drunk, with their necks extended. Those who want to sit with the old and the infirm; those who want to hide beneath the beds of their children; those who want to live to tell the story as if it was their own, stay behind. Those who want to rush their blood to the glory of our homeland, rally now. Now the time is right.”
A hand touched hers and Brinnie gasped, spinning her attention to her jug, snatching her fingers from the contact as if she’d been stung.
She met the eyes of a priest or a mystic, pale and searching.
In the shadows his long hair was dark, but where the fire caught in its wild tufts and lightened the ragged curls of his beard, it showed as red as blood. Rich deep auburn beneath, and bleached to dark chestnut by lime or neglect.
An odorous fleece jerkin, its collar spreading into a wide cape down over his shoulders, added to sense of fanatical disarray. There was a haunted look about him; the suggestion of madness born of too many months exposed to the elements.
In that he was not alone. Many of the men who’d rallied here had travelled and few had access to warm beds or hearthfires. Just as they did, he wore a heavy woolen kilt over leather brecks and his fur-lined boots laced from his toes to his knee.
But his eyes were his alone. In the moment that they held hers, she caught his sense of isolation. He was a man alone and self-contained; caught up as may be in the need that was upon the land, but somehow untouched. And yet he’d noticed her.
If she had done more than step up to refill his ale; if she had flung the jug out to douse the heat of his eyes; or if she had found herself staring into the shadows that she sensed in the lunatic frankness of his gaze, there might be reason for her discomfort.
But she hadn’t.
And still her pulse pounded at her ears. And the fire had no bearing on the heat that rose in her cheeks. It was as if he’d looked at her, and found her standing naked.
Thick lashes dropped over the aberrant fire in his eyes as he looked away, and the fingers that had burned hers hovered over the mouth of his cup. “No more,” he breathed, and Brinnie stepped back, then back again.....(continues)
...With casual ease, three forms broke from the stream of men and slipped off into the darkness of the treeline. Their horses were tethered back into the woods away from the general hubbub, and in the darkness they moved with increasing speed.
Of the twins, the second spoke with the sort of clipped abbreviation that only a brother might understand, and that in mumbled whispers. “North four leagues, south three. But I say north.”
“North,” the first agreed. “South to Dalginross there’ll be no one to respond but infantry. Up to Inchtuthil and the alae. Without cavalry there isn’t anyone’s got a chance to get back here in time.”
“North.” The ragged mystic threw himself up into the saddle and clenched his fingers down through the thick auburn of his beard. “And a bloodbath either way.”
It was agreed before the third man had mounted and the brothers moved in hunched silence down the hillside, opening their horses to a full stretch, running for the lives of the sleeping soldiers of the Ninth Hispanic Legion.
For eight months the brothers had lived in the turbulent surge of a nation gathering toward war. Not as they had for the years until now, from behind the walls and trenches of the Legionary defenses. Not as soldiers of the auxiliary cavalry. Not as part of the relentless, crushing, forward movement of the Roman Empire. This time they’d lived as men who’d slipped without a ripple into the pool.
For eight months they had lived as spies among their mother’s people.
CALEDONIA
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165 PAGES
90000 WORDS
720KB
DOWNLOAD LINK
- https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
BOOK THREE AD84
By AD83 the Romans in Caledonia held a line of glen-blocking forts, (now known as the Gask Ridge forts, from Glasgow to Perth) and the three active legions, XXth, IXth and IInd, were split along this defensive line.
Calgacus was one of a number of first century Pictish barons; part of a landed class in northern Celt society with access to slaves, money, men and arms. He fixed on the plan to unify the Caledonian Celtic tribes against Rome, beginning with the tribes of the Forth-Clyde area.
After a crushing defeat at a fort along the Roman line, Calgacus tried the following year to bring in all the Pictish tribes, and rallied an army of perhaps sixty thousand men (and women) for the Battle of Mons Graupius.
Once Calgacus' lover, Eirbrin has been sent north to her family lands on the Gleann Mor above Inbhir Nis. Fanatical dedication to the fight to free Caledonia from Rome has been her only way to deal with the deep and disabling shames of her past.
When she meets Antony she believes she has found a mystic, a man of power who can help her to overcome the demons of guilt and shame.
He is a spy, a Natione - native Britons conscripted to the Roman auxiliary army - used extensively by Agricola in the Caledonian wars, where the Celt's guerrilla tactics and harsh terrain made success near to impossible.
Everything about him should warn Brin of his deception, but her longing to atone, her need to be free of shame, and her growing desire for him allow her to deny or justify any doubts that come.
To him, she should be no more than an enemy; and with her ties to the leader of the Picts, a formidable source of information. But as they move through the Caledonian midlands toward the gathering battle, her beauty and courage, her innocence and the unfaltering faith she places in him draw him into an impossible situation.
Trapped between an irresistible love and an immovable duty, he must find a way to untangle his web of lies, or return to a life of service, to live or die alone.
165 PAGES
90000 WORDS
720KB
DOWNLOAD LINK
- https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
BOOK THREE AD84
By AD83 the Romans in Caledonia held a line of glen-blocking forts, (now known as the Gask Ridge forts, from Glasgow to Perth) and the three active legions, XXth, IXth and IInd, were split along this defensive line.
Calgacus was one of a number of first century Pictish barons; part of a landed class in northern Celt society with access to slaves, money, men and arms. He fixed on the plan to unify the Caledonian Celtic tribes against Rome, beginning with the tribes of the Forth-Clyde area.
After a crushing defeat at a fort along the Roman line, Calgacus tried the following year to bring in all the Pictish tribes, and rallied an army of perhaps sixty thousand men (and women) for the Battle of Mons Graupius.
Once Calgacus' lover, Eirbrin has been sent north to her family lands on the Gleann Mor above Inbhir Nis. Fanatical dedication to the fight to free Caledonia from Rome has been her only way to deal with the deep and disabling shames of her past.
When she meets Antony she believes she has found a mystic, a man of power who can help her to overcome the demons of guilt and shame.
He is a spy, a Natione - native Britons conscripted to the Roman auxiliary army - used extensively by Agricola in the Caledonian wars, where the Celt's guerrilla tactics and harsh terrain made success near to impossible.
Everything about him should warn Brin of his deception, but her longing to atone, her need to be free of shame, and her growing desire for him allow her to deny or justify any doubts that come.
To him, she should be no more than an enemy; and with her ties to the leader of the Picts, a formidable source of information. But as they move through the Caledonian midlands toward the gathering battle, her beauty and courage, her innocence and the unfaltering faith she places in him draw him into an impossible situation.
Trapped between an irresistible love and an immovable duty, he must find a way to untangle his web of lies, or return to a life of service, to live or die alone.
Friday, March 12, 2010
HISPANIA - SAMPLE CHAPTER
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DOWNLOAD LINK
- https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
Full chapter available in PDF, part chapter below
PART CHAPTER.
HISPANIA TARRACONENSIS, October, AD82.
Marella struggled against her bonds. If they meant to send her to the underworld, she would at least do her best to send his name ahead of her.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” she screamed again, fighting to keep her legs from folding. “Leucetius has to answer for this.”
Even through her desperation, his name dragged up bile. It burned against the tight choke of plaited ropes, where useless screams had scraped her throat raw. Terror froze her naked flesh, numbing her to all but the desperate need to breathe.
Staggering, slithering down over pebbles and shale, she fought to keep her feet.
Holding herself upright against all probability, she managed to turn, managed to fix her fierce hatred onto his shadowed form. Another shove and she would not have the strength to get back up. One more punch and she might surrender to the darkness. “Vile dog,” she hissed. She couldn’t spit. Her mouth was as dry as a crypt.
Beside her, a novice drew a hard fist and slammed it into her stomach.
She crumbled to her knees; her mouth open over air that would not move in or out and he kicked her into water. In the silent world of asphyxia, she almost smiled. Her vision was a sepia cloud where the gritty sludge of the riverbank washed into her eyes and mouth, waiting.
Her body heaved and jerked over its effort to drag air into the vacuum left by his blow. When it came, her breath would pull death and water deep into her lungs, and her struggle would be forfeit. The harder her body fought for life, the sooner it would end.
If only she had caught Leucetius’ robe, she might have dragged him to meet death with her. But nothing mattered so much now.
Blessed was the child who would never see the sun in any world where he drew breath.
Blessed was the child.
Innocent and blessed.
Drawing the fine strands of hair as he would have drawn fleece, Marcus rolled them through wax between his palms to form a fine cord. Even under the amber influence of the bees, the strand of her hair shone golden. Catching the light; holding sunshine in its depths.
Below him on the slopes of the River Iberus, a dozen sheep grazed in peaceful oblivion, hardly needing his attention. The milk cow moved with slow precision, her jaw clacking back against the hollow brass at her neck to mark her progress; and beside her, her calf and Marc’s single store bullock stood, staring back to meet his gaze.
“You’ll be meat soon enough, my friend,” he said quietly.
There was little enough cause to speak since his wife’s death, and the animals asked him no difficult questions. Above him the long spine of the mountain marched away from the weakening sun, shining gold through its usual coat of silver dust and sparse grey foliage. Behind him Max, the great mountain dog, lay beside his son, drooling while it watched the child eat corn cake.
As he rolled the precious lock of her hair into a fine twisted thread, Marc smiled at the idiot expression on the dog’s face. Its rough creamy coat ruffled in the late autumn breezes, trembling as if the wind itself encouraged the pursuit of a biscuit.
Marc gave a short whistle that brought the dog from its trance to his knee. From the riverside, the bitch too, came at a steady lope to sit at her master’s foot. The child looked up from his snack, gathering up his carved wooden horse, and ran after the dog to his father’s side.
The sky was coloring toward evening. It was time to take the stock back to the pens and the boy in for a meal.
Life went on.
DOWNLOAD LINK
- https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
Full chapter available in PDF, part chapter below
PART CHAPTER.
HISPANIA TARRACONENSIS, October, AD82.
Marella struggled against her bonds. If they meant to send her to the underworld, she would at least do her best to send his name ahead of her.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” she screamed again, fighting to keep her legs from folding. “Leucetius has to answer for this.”
Even through her desperation, his name dragged up bile. It burned against the tight choke of plaited ropes, where useless screams had scraped her throat raw. Terror froze her naked flesh, numbing her to all but the desperate need to breathe.
Staggering, slithering down over pebbles and shale, she fought to keep her feet.
Holding herself upright against all probability, she managed to turn, managed to fix her fierce hatred onto his shadowed form. Another shove and she would not have the strength to get back up. One more punch and she might surrender to the darkness. “Vile dog,” she hissed. She couldn’t spit. Her mouth was as dry as a crypt.
Beside her, a novice drew a hard fist and slammed it into her stomach.
She crumbled to her knees; her mouth open over air that would not move in or out and he kicked her into water. In the silent world of asphyxia, she almost smiled. Her vision was a sepia cloud where the gritty sludge of the riverbank washed into her eyes and mouth, waiting.
Her body heaved and jerked over its effort to drag air into the vacuum left by his blow. When it came, her breath would pull death and water deep into her lungs, and her struggle would be forfeit. The harder her body fought for life, the sooner it would end.
If only she had caught Leucetius’ robe, she might have dragged him to meet death with her. But nothing mattered so much now.
Blessed was the child who would never see the sun in any world where he drew breath.
Blessed was the child.
Innocent and blessed.
Drawing the fine strands of hair as he would have drawn fleece, Marcus rolled them through wax between his palms to form a fine cord. Even under the amber influence of the bees, the strand of her hair shone golden. Catching the light; holding sunshine in its depths.
Below him on the slopes of the River Iberus, a dozen sheep grazed in peaceful oblivion, hardly needing his attention. The milk cow moved with slow precision, her jaw clacking back against the hollow brass at her neck to mark her progress; and beside her, her calf and Marc’s single store bullock stood, staring back to meet his gaze.
“You’ll be meat soon enough, my friend,” he said quietly.
There was little enough cause to speak since his wife’s death, and the animals asked him no difficult questions. Above him the long spine of the mountain marched away from the weakening sun, shining gold through its usual coat of silver dust and sparse grey foliage. Behind him Max, the great mountain dog, lay beside his son, drooling while it watched the child eat corn cake.
As he rolled the precious lock of her hair into a fine twisted thread, Marc smiled at the idiot expression on the dog’s face. Its rough creamy coat ruffled in the late autumn breezes, trembling as if the wind itself encouraged the pursuit of a biscuit.
Marc gave a short whistle that brought the dog from its trance to his knee. From the riverside, the bitch too, came at a steady lope to sit at her master’s foot. The child looked up from his snack, gathering up his carved wooden horse, and ran after the dog to his father’s side.
The sky was coloring toward evening. It was time to take the stock back to the pens and the boy in for a meal.
Life went on.
HISPANIA
-
162 PAGES
95000 WORDS
763KB
DOWNLOAD LINK
- https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
Also now available as a complete online novel at:
Letitia Coyne eFiction
BOOK TWO - AD82.
First century Spain was divided into three provinces: Lusitania and Baetica in the south, and Tarraconensis in the north. While the southern and central areas, once subdued, were quickly Romanized, the northern areas, up into the Pyrenees, maintained a ‘seething’ peace.
Although the siege of Numantia in 133BC marked the end of organized resistance to Rome, the Celtiberian tribes maintained their heritage of warrior elites, and their hatred of Rome. They accepted the comforts, infrastructure and the benefits of Empire, while remaining independent tribal city-states under the control of noble families.
The heroine, Marella is the daughter of one such family. The Lusones were one of the most powerful tribes in northern Hispania, with their power centred in Caesaraugusta. To the west, the most influential family was the Arevaci. Their base was the tribal capital of Numantia, a place as revered in Spanish history as Masada in the Holy Lands, and for much the same reason.
Falsely accused by a vile and corrupt Druidic high priest, she is set to be executed. Her rescuer is Marcus, a Roman deserter from Britannia who has made his home in the Gallego valley above Caesaraugusta.
Finding no purpose in the life he leads, bored and frustrated, he relishes the chance to face the challenges that come with saving the life of this young noblewoman. Her best chance of survival lies in travelling across the province to Numantia, and her only chance of survival is to do that with Marc.
Somehow they must stay ahead of High Priest Leucetius and the priests of a Romanised and corrupted temple; Marella's noble brother Taran and his standing army; and Rome herself.
Away from the capital, the Roman world was a complex, sometimes bloody blend and clash of cultures. The people were as many and varied as they are today, not stereotypical Roman ladies and gents consumed by the politics of Caesar's court.
Hispania is a glimpse into the less well known lives of Rome.
162 PAGES
95000 WORDS
763KB
DOWNLOAD LINK
- https://sites.google.com/site/letitiacoynefiction/
Also now available as a complete online novel at:
Letitia Coyne eFiction
BOOK TWO - AD82.
First century Spain was divided into three provinces: Lusitania and Baetica in the south, and Tarraconensis in the north. While the southern and central areas, once subdued, were quickly Romanized, the northern areas, up into the Pyrenees, maintained a ‘seething’ peace.
Although the siege of Numantia in 133BC marked the end of organized resistance to Rome, the Celtiberian tribes maintained their heritage of warrior elites, and their hatred of Rome. They accepted the comforts, infrastructure and the benefits of Empire, while remaining independent tribal city-states under the control of noble families.
The heroine, Marella is the daughter of one such family. The Lusones were one of the most powerful tribes in northern Hispania, with their power centred in Caesaraugusta. To the west, the most influential family was the Arevaci. Their base was the tribal capital of Numantia, a place as revered in Spanish history as Masada in the Holy Lands, and for much the same reason.
Falsely accused by a vile and corrupt Druidic high priest, she is set to be executed. Her rescuer is Marcus, a Roman deserter from Britannia who has made his home in the Gallego valley above Caesaraugusta.
Finding no purpose in the life he leads, bored and frustrated, he relishes the chance to face the challenges that come with saving the life of this young noblewoman. Her best chance of survival lies in travelling across the province to Numantia, and her only chance of survival is to do that with Marc.
Somehow they must stay ahead of High Priest Leucetius and the priests of a Romanised and corrupted temple; Marella's noble brother Taran and his standing army; and Rome herself.
Away from the capital, the Roman world was a complex, sometimes bloody blend and clash of cultures. The people were as many and varied as they are today, not stereotypical Roman ladies and gents consumed by the politics of Caesar's court.
Hispania is a glimpse into the less well known lives of Rome.
INTRODUCTION
Hello out there.
This blogspot was set up as a way to give away some manuscripts I have, free. There are three stories in the original series, with each story separate and able to be read without reference to the others. The fourth is set in the same era, the first century Roman world, but the characters have no relationship to the family who appear in the first three.
I have not blogged before and am still working out the finer points, so please be patient.
Hopefully I will end up with an outline and sample chapter for each story available first, with the choice then to download a PDF of each full novel.
The stories were written for a publisher who, as sometimes happens, after L O N G deliberations decided they could not be published under her company's guidelines. They were however, too skewed toward that genre to be welcomed anywhere else. They are litle stories written in a few weeks and meant to be read in a few relaxing hours, not works of great literary scope, but I hope some of you out there might enjoy them. It costs nothing to find out.
I welcome comments.
With warmest wishes to all,
Letitia Coyne.
This blogspot was set up as a way to give away some manuscripts I have, free. There are three stories in the original series, with each story separate and able to be read without reference to the others. The fourth is set in the same era, the first century Roman world, but the characters have no relationship to the family who appear in the first three.
I have not blogged before and am still working out the finer points, so please be patient.
Hopefully I will end up with an outline and sample chapter for each story available first, with the choice then to download a PDF of each full novel.
The stories were written for a publisher who, as sometimes happens, after L O N G deliberations decided they could not be published under her company's guidelines. They were however, too skewed toward that genre to be welcomed anywhere else. They are litle stories written in a few weeks and meant to be read in a few relaxing hours, not works of great literary scope, but I hope some of you out there might enjoy them. It costs nothing to find out.
I welcome comments.
With warmest wishes to all,
Letitia Coyne.
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