ERIC'S BIT or AT MY SIGNAL, UNLEASH CONFUSION
Near the beginning of the movie Gladiator, General Maximus, about to lead his legions into battle deep in the forests of Germany, gives the command "At my signal, unleash hell," and before you can shake a pila it's hasta la vista barbarians.
When I first saw the movie that line didn't bother me. Ever since Dirty Harry wanted his day made, quick thinking action heroes have had to come up with memorable phrases prior to inflicting mayhem. It isn't a bad convention, for those of us who take some vicarious pleasure in imagining ourselves as the hero. Even if I were able to engineer the bloody
dispatch of an army of ruthless Germans I would probably have emerged from my tent one morning, weeks later, thinking, "The Furies take me. I should've said, 'At my signal, unleash hell,' instead of 'At the count of
three, go.'"
However, slow-witted as I am, I have recently wondered about the use of the word "hell." Why would a Roman general exhort his troops to bring down upon the enemy a banned religious cult's idea of what the afterlife holds for those who fail to adhere to their religion's decidedly non-Roman precepts? Certainly the typical Roman did not believe in the Christian idea of hell and if Maximus' men did hold beliefs differing from those of the average pagan of the era, they were likely Mithrans since that was a soldier's religion.
To be fair, historical fiction always presents translation
problems so it may be that the word "hell" was meant to be an understandable reference to the Roman's own conception of the eternal wrong side of the tracks reserved for transgressors. After all, "At my signal, release Tartarus," just doesn't have much of a ring to modern ears.
Tartarus, where the judges of the dead sent wrongdoers after the latter had been ferried across the Styx to the underworld, wasn't much like Hell. In fact, most souls sent there wandered as pale shades in meadows of asphodel. It is hard to imagine why Maximus would urge his army to unleash fields of asphodel on the Germans, or what military objective such a tactic might achieve, except perhaps to sow confusion, presuming the Germans were as uncertain as I am about what an asphodel actually is.
I have read that some Roman dead were punished by the Furies, so maybe that was what Maximus had in mind, but if so, why didn't he just order the unleashing of the Furies?
Even if one argues that the reference to hell is anachronistic does it matter? It's a good line. It certainly conjures up the proper images, and probably does so better for a modern movie-goer than some more realistically Roman reference could. I suppose it is a question of the writer's taste in translation.
When Mary and I write our Byzantine mysteries I always feel as if I'm translating our characters' words from the ancient Greek or Latin. We tend to be conservative, literal, translators. So while the adolescent court page, Hektor, might show his contempt and disrespect for John by barging into the Lord Chamberlain's home and issuing impertinent orders, he won't soon be addressing him with "Hey, old Chamberlain dude," although that is probably what he'd be saying if he were living today.
The use of modern, idiomatic expressions might make it a little easier for the present day reader to relate to characters, or at least makes it easier for the writer to present those characters. But I believe that in any historical novel, one of the main characters, perhaps as important as the protagonist, is the setting, and anachronisms in the mouths of other characters makes the setting less believable. It is hard enough to convince readers to imagine they are walking down the Mese in ancient Constantinople without constantly reminding them that this is a book written in the twenty-first century.
We try hard to make sure no anachronisms slip into the John the Eunuch series, but it's hard to avoid and sometimes occasionally tempting. While writing Three For A Letter, we were sorely tempted to play a bit fast and loose with the language. The Byzantines, as Mary mentions above, were very
fond of puns. Unfortunately Byzantine puns only make sense in Latin or ancient Greek. I'm not sure how, or if it is possible, to translate a pun. Nevertheless, Anatolius, considering himself a wit, would likely have been prone to puns and in one scene as originally written he got carried away and made one involving goats and Christianity.
On reflection and after a bit more research the chroniclers of the adventures of John and his friends decided that particular bit of word play only worked in English and would've made no sense in ancient Greek, so it was removed. Besides, it was dreadful, not to mention possibly upsetting to people of nervous disposition. Anyway, if you want to hear that pun I guess you'll have to wait for the out-takes on the DVD.
AND FINALLY
Since we're approaching 2,000 words and try to stay around that figure so as not to overload your e-mail, we'll now scurry about and close down this issue. As usual, we'll be back in two months so look out for the next Orphan Scrivener in mid-December, that time of jolly jamborees across both the ancient and modern worlds.
Best wishes to all.
Mary and Eric
whose home page lurks about at
http://home.epix.net/~maywrite/
Therein you'll find the usual suspects plus more personal essays, an interactive game and an on-line jigsaw puzzle (at least for those who have java-enabled browsers) featuring One For Sorrow's eye-catching scarlet cover. We also now have a work-in-progress, to wit, a page listing mystery-
related newsletters (print and email). If you have such a newsletter and would like to be listed, let us know. And finally, for those new to the subscription list there's also the Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned!
