Challenges in Writing an Historical-fiction Trilogy

by | A New Post, WRITING CHALLENGES

The process of writing a trio of chronologically sequenced, scrupulously accurate historical novels presents a combination of challenges that are not present when an author tackles “pure history” or “pure fiction” or even a single-volume story.

This post touches on four major challenges that I encountered in writing my Ruby-Viper Trilogy.

My first challenge was to convey three things as correctly as possible:

  • the key historical events,
  • the wider cultural context, and
  • the real lives of a set of significant men and women who actually lived through those events and in that culture.

For example, I couldn’t play fast and loose with the well-known facts and dates of the Roman-Jewish War (AD 66-74) or Rome’s civil war (AD 68-69) or the destruction of Pompeii (AD 79). And, frankly, I didn’t want to, because, after all, what writer possibly could invent plot twists to match The Great Revolt, or Nero’s suicide, or The Year of Four Emperors, or the eruption of Mount Vesuvius?

Furthermore, since so many fascinating real-life people — Vespasian, Titus, Flavia Domitilla, Nero, Otho, Poppaea Sabina, Yosef ben Matityahu (aka Josephus), Berenice, and others — lived during the twenty-six year arc of this trilogy (AD 53 to 79), I tried to respect them by telling their stories correctly and well.

 

My second challenge was to weave into and around that immutable timeline, that authentic culture, and those real people’s lives an equally fascinating set of fictional characters.

The Viper AmuletMany of the “invented people” who add so much interest and texture to this story — Theodosia, Alexander, Stefan, Doros (aka Dorus), Lycos, Myrine, Nikolaos, Iocaste, Nizzo, Xantho, Nicanor, Tavi, Adin, and others — came to feel like my own friends and family and thus could not be slighted or badly portrayed in any way.

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My third challenge was to choose the best alternative point-of-view characters — or “co-protagonists” — through whose eyes, minds, and experiences I could tell my extended tale.

Without question, this is Theodosia Varro’s story from start to finish, so she is one of the two co-protagonists in each novel. But by incorporating three other viewpoints into the series — each co-protagonist properly given his own agency (and, yes, they all are males) — I was able to push the overall scope of the “lived experiences” revealed in my story far beyond what any one woman (or any one person) possibly could have seen or done on their own at that historical time.

Once I made the decision to do that through the entire trilogy, I found it allowed each book to develop in its own organic way, both dramatically and historically.

So the reader experiences Rubies of the Viper through the equal eyes, minds, and experiences of Theodosia and Alexander.

The Ruby Ring

And the reader experiences The Viper Amulet through the equal eyes, minds, and experiences of Theodosia and Nikolaos.

And the reader experiences The Ruby Ring through the equal eyes, minds, and experiences of Theodosia and Doros (aka Dorus).

I believe that approach makes the overall story better by incorporating many more fascinating people, places, events, and insights than a single point-of-view character like Theodosia Varro ever could have encountered, especially given the legal and social constraints imposed on first-century women.

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My fourth challenge was to conclude this trilogy in such a compelling and satisfying way that readers would feel rewarded for having plowed through all three lengthy, complex tomes.

Now, as I post this in the summer of 2025, having reached the final stage of this immense project, I fervently hope — and in my heart actually do believe — that I have done that. You, the reader, will have the final say!

Pleasures and Pitfalls of Writing a Fictional Sequel

by | A New Post, WRITING CHALLENGES

Originally posted in 2017, updated in 2025

One year after the 2010 debut of my first historical novel, Rubies of the Viper, I began work on its sequel, The Viper Amulet, which was published in 2017. With that second book’s own sequel, The Ruby Ring, coming out in 2025, it will complete the sprawling and suspenseful first-century family saga that I call The Ruby-Viper Trilogy.

Originally, I did not set out to produce a trio of novels. The idea only entered my head after growing numbers of readers and reviewers commented that they had enjoyed Rubies of the Viper and wanted to know what happened later on to its protagonists.

That suggestion was both flattering and intimidating. The learning curve for continuing the story would be steep. Since my heroine was young, I knew that it would take two more books to tell her complete story in a way that would do it justice.

And I realized two more key things:

  • If the second book wasn’t at least as good as the first, and preferably better, few people would read the third.
  • If the third book happened to get critically panned, that would effectively destroy the entire trilogy, no matter how much people enjoyed the first two.

At last, in 2011, fully aware of the challenges awaiting me, I decided to plunge ahead with The Viper Amulet.

This post (as I’ve updated it in 2025) reflects my experience of writing three extensive novels in a chronological series. I hope you’ll enjoy learning a bit about the pleasures I savor and the pitfalls I try to avoid.

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PLEASURES TO SAVOR

People: Reconnecting with my ongoing fictional and historical characters while also introducing new ones of both types is just plain fun.

The fictional co-protagonists in Rubies of the Viper are a nineteen-year-old Roman heiress named Theodosia Varro and her older, newly inherited Greek slave Alexander.

Rubies of the Viper is told exclusively through their alternating points of view. Both of them continue as major players in The Viper Amulet, but while Theodosia’s point of view goes on, a younger relative’s perspective replaces Alexander’s.

Theodosia’s point of view also extends through The Ruby Ring, and the other perspective moves to an even younger member of the family. It’s an unusual way to present a multi-generational story, but as I now finish writing the third book of the series, I’m happy with the way it’s turning out.

The historical male characters in The Ruby Ring include Emperor Nero and four others: Otho, Vespasian, Titus, and Domitian. Three of them will take Nero’s place as emperor before my trilogy ends.

In this trilogy, there are also several real-life females, including Flavia Domitilla, the young daughter of future Emperor Vespasian… and a sultry courtesan named Poppaea Sabina who in the first book keeps things hopping (and men drooling) in Nero’s palace.

To further complicate the plot, a new-and-intriguing historical man enters the mix in The Viper Amulet. Another equally fascinating historical woman is poised to do the same in The Ruby Ring. More pleasures lie ahead!

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The Viper AmuletPlaces: Most of Rubies of the Viper is set in or near Rome, although three characters travel to Greece and one ventures on to gritty Antioch and its leafy suburb, Daphne, in what was then a part of Syria and these days is a part of Turkey.

In that book’s sequel, The Viper Amulet, and now the sequel’s own sequel, The Ruby Ring, the novelty of introducing additional lands, cities, towns, and cultures from around the Mediterranean keeps me interested… and the reader, too, I trust.

Ferreting out exactly the right physical details and atmospheric touches, which are essential to bringing today’s archaeological sites to life as the vibrant places that my characters would have experienced two thousand years ago, amuses me as much as researching a dynamic historical figure or coming up with a game-changing plot twist.

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Events: Since my trilogy covers nearly twenty-six tumultuous years (AD 53-79) and involves a host of ambitious real-life individuals, I take full advantage of the actual events that kept them busy. Wars. Assassinations. Conspiracies. Seductions. Skullduggery.

But what does the writer of a decades-spanning tale do in the inevitable lulls between history-making events?

One approach is to let thee ordinary characters live their lives. This doesn’t mean, of course, that nothing happens. Conflicts still take place. Old hatreds still boil over. Men and women still make love, have babies, argue, gossip, steal, cheat, lie, bully, murder, and commit other atrocities. Invented people do just what real people have done throughout history. It’s up to me, as the author, to infuse their activities with the tension and uncertainty that keeps readers turning pages. I work hard to fill my stories with conflict and suspense, so I’m delighted that many reviewers report staying well engaged with them.

A second approach is simply to skip the slow parts. At one point in writing The Viper Amulet, there was little I could do to juice up Theodosia’s child-raising routine, which had no bearing on the plot anyway and threatened to smother it if I didn’t do something dramatic. So I planted one of those game-changing plot twists at the end of that section and then jumped seven and a half years forward into an energetic new section. The ploy works, the story moves along, and the suspense continues unabated to the end of the novel. Fun!

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PITFALLS TO AVOID

Too much repetition: The writer of fictional sequels must produce notably different novels each time. While in most cases the main and supporting characters can and should continue into a second book and even a third or more, the typical reader won’t be thrilled to find all the same people with all the same quirks doing all the same things in all the same places with only minor variations throughout.

So I make it a point to shake up my sequels with brash new players, even-more-epic conflicts, greater suspense, higher stakes, unique settings, and fresh plots and subplots.

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Flawed assumptions: It’s never safe to assume that the reader of a sequel knows or cares that another book or several books came before it. Even a trilogy like mine, which explores a specific chronological sequence of events (as opposed to, say, one with a detective who investigates isolated, unrelated cases during a shorter time frame), may have readers starting with the second or third volume.

The Ruby Ring

I believe that my novels are most enjoyable and impactful when read in order, so I titled the second one The Viper Amulet: The Sequel to Rubies of the Viper. That doesn’t guarantee that people will approach them the way I wish, although it does seem likely to increase the odds.

But still, since I can’t force anyone to read them that way, I carefully buried in The Viper Amulet—and now have done the same in The Ruby Ring—just enough brief, spaced-out, logically introduced trickles of information that will allow a late-coming reader to grasp the essentials needed from the previous book(s) without having to suffer through long, annoying info dumps. And if it’s been a while since a reader actually did read the previous book(s), he or she may appreciate those minimal reminders of what happened earlier in the series.

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Unsatisfying conclusions: Since a sequel follows both of my first two novels, I leave an opening at the end of each one that gives the main characters a smooth transition into the next. At the conclusion of Rubies of the Viper, they walk—literally and symbolically—through a door into the next phase of their lives. At the conclusion of The Viper Amulet, an emotional parting marks the passage. If readers want to stop at those two points, they can do so knowing that the story they’ve just finished is complete.

Personally, I dislike cliffhangers that require an additional purchase to find out what happens in a book I’ve just read. So I make sure that my novels come to their natural conclusions with all key characters accounted for and all plot and subplot issues resolved. Loose ends are always tied up unless they’re essential hooks on which the sequel hangs. And, of course, the third novel will wrap up the entire family saga with no dangling plot threads remaining at all.

That said, however, I don’t mind teasing readers with just a bit of ambiguity about the main characters’ futures, especially if a sequel is to follow. A reader’s curiosity is a writer’s best friend, after all.

Now, I’d love to hear from readers about the pleasures and pitfalls that you’ve noted in historical novels and their sequels.

Real People in Historical Fiction

by | HISTORICAL CHARACTERS, WRITING CHALLENGES

Otho coinHistorical fiction is exciting to write because it offers opportunities to explore a different world from the one we live in. Inventing characters to fit into distant places and times is mostly fun, but mixing fictional characters with people who actually lived in another era ups the ante, not only with creative challenges but with a responsibility to abide by the historical reality.

Invented characters must be true to the times in which they are placed. A fifteenth-century damsel can’t go off to her job as a news broadcaster. But as long as we avoid anachronisms and don’t engage our characters in activities that couldn’t or wouldn’t have happened in the time and place we’re writing about, we’re free to have them say, do, and be whatever we please.

Not so when bringing real people to life in fiction. They’ve been written about already in contemporary records, history texts, or earlier works of fiction. Their existence was noted at the time they lived, with some degree of accuracy, if not always objectivity. Their lives, deeds, personalities, and manner of death (place, time, cause, etc) are often well known. We cannot tamper with those things.

But that doesn’t mean we can’t use our creative vision to flesh them out. In fact, if we choose to include them in our fiction, we must flesh them out. Cardboard characters, real or invented, are of no interest to anybody. So we pour over the history books in search of the living people we seek to portray, then exercise our best talents to make them seem as “real” as they were in life.

In Rubies of the Viper, the protagonist, Theodosia, and most of the supporting cast are invented, but six historical people also play important roles.

Four of those are future emperors at the start of the novel: Nero, Otho, Vespasian, and Vespasian’s elder son, Titus. Their lives, personalities, and characteristics are well documented in historical records. (Vespasian’s younger son, the future Emperor Domitian, appears in one of my scenes as a small child. Even though he doesn’t speak, I did my best to suggest the man he would become.)

I saw my role as recreating these future emperors as fully as possible without altering their true stories and essential natures. It was a challenge to start with the historical facts about each one and imagine how—on his rise to the pinnacle of power—he might have acted, talked, and related to Theodosia.

Nero actually was a pampered, self-indulgent prince, but he might by turns be bored, charming, treacherous, and (as emperor) merciless to Theodosia.

Otho actually was a blue-blooded patrician, but his ambition, ego, and boorish behavior might cause trouble for Theodosia.

Vespasian actually was a low-born soldier with an irreverent tongue, but he became a general, a national hero, and a well-respected emperor through organizational skills that might serve Theodosia in time of need.

Titus actually was “mankind’s darling” (according to one Roman historian), but he might seek to use Theodosia as a stepping-stone on his way to the top.

With the two real women in my novel, Poppaea and Flavia, it was great fun to be creative.

Poppaea actually did manage to marry both Otho and Nero, and her life as Nero’s empress is well documented. I was able to build her character to suit my needs, based on her historical reputation as a beautiful, manipulative, and ambitious woman.

Vespasian’s daughter plays a pivotal role in the book, but since she—the historical Flavia—was barely noticed in her time and died young, I had almost nothing to go by. So I was free to create an impish, bubbly, and clever teenager who adores her father and brother and becomes Theodosia’s best friend.

Could another author portray these six “real people” in a different way? Of course. Many already have, and many more will do so in the future. But no author can deviate from their essential natures (by turning Otho into a sweet, lovable man, for example) or the basic facts of their lives. And that remains one of an historical fiction writer’s greatest challenges: creating well-developed characters who function nicely in the context of a novel while remaining true to their historical selves.

—text copyright © Martha Marks—

The Dreadful Carcer

by | Cities, Rome

Carcer TullianusOf all the settings portrayed in Rubies of the Viper, none was more painful—and paradoxically more exciting and challenging—to envision than the Carcer Tullianum, Rome’s notorious underground death chamber. I can’t be specific about the scenes set there, because that would reveal key elements of the plot, but the place is fascinating enough on its own to be worth a post.

Located in a swampy area near the River Tiber, a spot ultimately drained by the Cloaca Maxima (great sewer) to become the Roman Forum, the two-level Carcer was begun by Ancus Marcius, the fourth king of Rome (reigned 640-616 BC), and expanded by Servius Tullius, the sixth king (reigned 578-535 BC). Marcius built the upper chamber (the carcer) as a holding pen for state prisoners. Tullius added the lower portion (the tullianum), where prisoners were either killed outright or buried alive and left to die. Bodies of those unfortunates were usually dumped into the Cloaca.

The Carcer (pronounced kar-ker, the root of the English incarcerate) wasn’t built for long-term confinement, much less as a “penitentiary” per our modern thinking. Roman kings and emperors didn’t grant common criminals or political enemies the luxury of contemplating their sins and reforming their ways. Rather, political foes were unceremoniously stabbed or poisoned, either in public or in their homes. Mere criminals were dispatched in the arena, which served the dual purpose of ridding society of undesirables and providing public amusement.

The Carcer Tullianum was a combination holding pen and human disposal system, but seldom were both uses applied to the same individual. Captured enemies or rebel chieftains were kept there for a limited time until their day came to be paraded through the streets and strangled as part of the festivities associated with some victorious general’s “triumph.” Slaves whose testimony was required by the Roman system of justice were routinely tortured in the Carcer; many undoubtedly made their exit via the vile waters of the Cloaca Maxima. And anybody the emperor wanted to see disappear without a trace could do so in the infamous lower level of the Carcer Tullianus.

Legend says the Emperor Nero ordered Saint Peter held in the Carcer before sending him on to execution in the arena. There’s a church atop the site now, and modern-day visitors see a highly Christianized restoration of the prison (see the cutaway illustration above). But long before the rise of Christianity, the Carcer Tullianum occupied a gruesome, greatly feared role in Roman society.

In Chapter 15 of Rubies of the Viper, during a visit to Rome in A.D. 53, Theodosia’s slaves discuss the place:

“What’s that?” Stefan pointed to an oddly shaped building on the north side of the Forum.
“The Carcer Tullianum,” said Alexander.
“The famous prison? So small?”
“It’s mostly underground.”
“They say you go in alive through a hole in the floor,” Lucilla said, “and come out dead in the sewer below.”
“What happens in the meantime is anybody’s guess,” added Marcipor. “But if they want to keep you alive for a while, they stick you in some underground cave where the Cloaca Maxima enters the Tiber.”
Alexander chuckled without mirth.
“And then they allow you the luxury of dying of fever and starvation, instead of torturing you to death.”
“A place to stay away from,” Lucilla whispered. “They say it’s easy enough to wind up there without trying.”

—text copyright © Martha Marks—

Daphne, Sumptuous Suburb

by | Antioch, Syria

The hamlet of Daphne was the place to live for wealthy Romans posted to Antioch, Syria, a far corner of their empire in the first century A.D.

A lovely place by all reports, Daphne boasted a heavily forested mountain setting, rippling streams, lush gardens, luxurious villas, a centuries-old Temple of Apollo, and a fine view of the Orontes Valley.

It was quite a logical—albeit ironical—thing for the Greeks to name the site of this temple “Daphne,” given that their mythology has the god Apollo chase the chaste virgin Daphne with lewd, lascivious intentions. She escaped by turning herself into a laurel tree, which forever after would be associated with Apollo.

I could find no first-century image of Daphne to work with, only the sixteenth-century rendition shown here, which was created by a Flemish cartographer, Abraham Ortelius, 15 centuries after the Romans took it as their residential paradise in Syria. While the buildings that Ortelius portrayed are not Roman or Greek, the rustic setting makes it plain what attracted the Roman masters of the world to this particular spot.

Even with little more than this anachronistic image to wrap my imagination around, I enjoyed setting a small but important part of Rubies of the Viper in Daphne. (Note: I’m hiding the identity of the character here, so as not to create a spoiler.)

It was to pray, too, that he walked once a week up to woodsy Daphne, to the temple of Apollo, Greek god of music, medicine, and prophecy. “Better be a worm and feed on the mulberries of Daphne than a king’s guest,” the locals said. [He] quickly decided they were right.

The temple—with its sacred cypress grove and the ever-flowing springs channeled around it—was a reminder that Antioch owed its founding to Seleucus, the restless Greek who had conquered Syria four hundred years before the Romans arrived.

Going “up to Daphne” was a trek on foot, but he refused to waste precious coins renting a horse from Levi. That would be too dangerous, anyway. Galloping up the mountain was for Romans; the lords of the earth ignored the trudging pedestrians, who were mostly slaves.

Besides, the walk was pleasant. Antioch sprawled along the valley like an old dog in the sun. The Orontes bent at the marketplace and split—like a sinuous dancer’s upraised arms around her head—to form an island. The wharves jutted into the river like fingers against glass. The walls and bridges and buildings constructed by Seleucus, Herod, and Tiberius gleamed… polished by the years. The governor’s gray palace lorded it over the city.

A fine metaphor for Rome’s view of the world.

It was especially fun to envision the experience of visiting a classic Greek Temple.

Behind the bloody sacrificial altar, a fire crackled in a gigantic golden urn, wafting its plume of smoke to the peak of the rotunda and filling the vast space with the aroma of roasting goat. Having brought nothing to sacrifice, [he] deposited a silver coin in the altar box and turned his attention to the temple’s divine resident… a massive figure standing directly under the gilded dome.

Apollo’s arms, legs, and head were brown-veined marble. Amethyst eyes stared out under a laurel crown of gleaming gold. His wooden torso was draped with a silver fabric that glinted in the sunlight reflected off the marble floor. In one hand, Apollo held a golden lyre. His mouth was open. Clearly, he was singing.

This fine temple was destroyed by fire in A.D. 362.

—text copyright © Martha Marks—