Serial Barbarians: Visigoth Reception in 21st-Century Youth and Adult Pulp Fiction (pdf)
Abstract:
Serial narratives are all around us. The rise of video streaming portals and their attempt to feed the audience with ever new material for binge watching has only made the general tendency toward serial formats more obvious than it already was.[1] This is not the place to discuss the commercial motives behind the decision to turn all those 20th-century films and TV formats into 21st-century franchises with follow-up films, books, series and even more spin-offs.[2] Repeating a winning formula has been a common technique in popular media since long before the advent of films or video games, even though these have become a driving force and influence the way we think about serial narratives today.[3]
Essay:
Ongoing Stories: Approaching the Barbarian (again)
Repetitions are an essential building block of culture. Every day, we receive, repeat and pass on little pieces of information: colloquialisms and stereotypes, established and newly arisen vocabulary, little ideas, and abstract concepts. This repetition tends to work so unconsciously that Memetic Theory argues for an analogy to virus transmission: we humans are the hosts for replicators – pieces of information – that struggle for survival in the form of successful repetition and transmission according to evolutionary principles.[4]
Of course, there is the possibility for any host to become aware of this process and consciously take advantage of it, which is what jingle composers do for a living. Literature is particularly amenable to this possibility since the texts exist in physical form outside of their authors’ minds. This provides the opportunity for constant re-checking, higher awareness of repetitive techniques and the optimization of its usage as a strategic and artistic tool. One might claim that the masterful application of the technique on various levels in, for example, the works of Ovid indicates a high level of such awareness of the power of repetition by some ancient authors.[5] Modern colleagues, however, have access to a larger body of knowledge on the subject; they do not have to struggle with scholarly analyses to provide insight into the phenomenon, but instead can easily consult websites and self-help books that outline successful formulas and how to repeat them for a novel (or serialize them for a sequence of texts). In addition, they face a readership that is more numerous than ever – and that can appreciate a good variation of “more of the same.”[6]
If the following pages discuss novel series as a 21st-century phenomenon, it is only fair to point out that many modern classics before that started life as serial narrations. Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary was written as a serial in La Revue de Paris in 1856 and only became published later in the form of the book that achieved worldwide popularity. Charles Dickens, Alexandre Dumas, Jules Verne and many others used similar channels to reveal their novels piece by piece – even if few people reading A Tale of Two Cities nowadays realizes that it used to be partitioned into 31 segments for publication in Dickens’ own literary periodical All the Year Round.[7] A stricter definition, such as the one used for the following analysis, focuses on serial novels in the sense of a narrative that stretches over at least two complete books. Many historical examples, like Alexandre Dumas, would still qualify thanks to Les Trois Mousquetaires and its follow-up novels. However, this essay exams the contemporary trend of serial novels, with a focus on the Visigoths as topic and characters in such narrations.
The main reason – beyond the laudable intention of the symposium to present material previously ignored by scholarly analysis – is the aspect of popularity. Due to the new possibilities of e-book publishing, it has never been so easy to make a self-written novel accessible to a large audience. And thanks to the infrastructure and marketing power of Amazon and other suppliers, these texts have now left the niche of fan-fiction portals and become mainstream. Living proof is the Fifty Shades trilogy by E.L. James that originated in fanfiction to the Twilight Saga by Stephenie Meyer and became one of the most successful novel series of the 2010s; with millions of self-published novels around, few gain such commercial success and become movie franchises in their own right. Then again, it would be wrong to focus too much on the extreme examples if one is thinking about novel series as a mass phenomenon.
The following analysis is therefore based on three representative examples regardless of their impact on (and response by) a larger audience. If the latter is mentioned at some points, it is always in the context of how this might form a factor in creating and continuing the “serial Visigoth barbarians”. While I believe that audience impact studies are an important and much-neglected field of research, I am fully aware of the limitations of a study such as mine. I have neither researched fanfiction forums nor attempted to get sales figures from the authors and/or publishers. My focus is – speaking in marketing terms – on the supply side: how do the authors introduce, give color to and assay Visigoth history, language, characters, etc.? How can these selections, interpretations and inventions be understood in the context of 21st century serial narratives in the wider genre of historical (fantasy) writing? For these purposes, the books discussed do not need to be particularly successful, let alone aesthetically pleasing. In fact, I have serious doubts that the majority will spur TV series or movie franchises, and my own impression of their entertainment value is a rather mixed one. Be that as it may, the Chronicles of the Aeolian Family, the Visigoth Chronicles and the Visigoth Barbarians series have a lot to teach us about the reception of the barbarian Visigoths in 21st-century historical fiction.
In general, barbarians are a constant and popular, if never dominating subject in this medium. By definition, all of them are fictional, but many never strive to be anything but fantastic, along the lines of Conan the Barbarian.[8] “Germanic” barbarians, to name but one historical (and historically loaded) example, have received much attention by novel writers from early modern times onwards.[9] By comparison, “Visigoths” explicitly named as such – and texts that concentrate on them and their history – are a rare occurrence. Since my criteria concentrated on series of at least two novels, all of which were first published in the 21st century and are accessible for an international audience in a stable release format, the sample narrowed down automatically.[10] By happy accident, my three case studies represent three different popular subgenres: a diachronic series of educational children’s novellas (Chronicles of the Aeolian Family), a historical adventure series for “young people of all ages” (Visigoth Chronicles), and adult romantic fiction with pornographic elements (Visigoth Barbarians).
For all their differences, the texts share some problems, for example regarding names and other historical terminology. I will therefore look beyond the mere story, and include the paratexts, especially the numerous aids provided in the publications: readers’ introductions, historical notes, annotations, maps, indexes, etc. Since many of these additions contain important details about the knowledge base and motivation of the authors, they deserve more than a cursory glance.[11] As shown below, all three series reflect the concept of “barbarism” to some extent, the majority identifying it as a cultural and often pejorative construct. Nevertheless, the term will be used here as collective label for and lowest common denominator of the diverse presentations. It would also be a fruitless effort to chide the authors for terminological inconsistencies or, for that matter, historical inaccuracies. If somebody tries to sell books by creating a fantasy including a time-travelling Visigoth warrior, it would be futile to apply the same criteria as one would do in case of a school book, let alone of a scholarly work.
Jayla Jasso: The Visigoth Barbarians series (2016–?)
Our first example may be called a case of “Visigoths by accident”. The books are the work of Jayla Jasso, a US high school teacher from Colorado, who describes herself as “romance author, blogger, wannabe vegan chef and yoga queen.”[12] Her literary output is – apart from her food and travel blog – mainly available due to the self-publishing options on Amazon. In her romantic fiction, Jasso shows a particular fondness for historical/fantasy settings: Caribbean Jewel deals with the romantic entanglement of a Spanish pirate and a young Englishwoman. The Omaja series focuses on two brothers/assassins and their love-life in a pseudo-oriental setting.
Sweet Barbarian[13] was published in 2016 as a standalone volume, but later turned into the beginning of a series. Its story begins in Gallia Aquitania in ad 483: Valamir Braga is the chieftain of an unnamed village where he lives with his brother Andaric. The latter has an affair with Glismoda, the wife of Jovinus who seems to be something like a Roman governor. For unspecified reasons, the Romans storm the village and sentence the Braga brothers to death (I: 1–3, 67–71, 82–6, 95–7). Glismoda uses her Druidic magic to save Valamir by sending him into the year 2015. He awakes in Green Mountain Falls, Colorado, and is rescued from freezing by Karly, a recently divorced high school teacher (I: 4–20). She teaches him English, helps him create a new identity as a construction worker, and both soon fall in love. Valamir has to protect Karly several times from her ex-husband who is a violent drug addict. (I: 182–5, 276–85, 368–72). Since she is still reluctant to believe the time-travel story, Valamir returns to the spot of his arrival and is sucked back into the 5th century. Karly follows him, and their love proves strong enough to survive Glismoda’s schemes. Karly escapes to 2015, calls Valamir to her, and both become married soon afterwards (I: 352–68). The epilogue indicates a perfect honeymoon and a journey to the ruins of Valamir’s home village in modern day France (I: 386).
The autobiographical impact on the design of the narrative and characters is obvious in the location, the career of the female protagonist, but even in details – such as the dozen or so vegan recipes scattered throughout the book.[14] In other regards, the presentation of the Visigoth protagonist is a mixture between genre conventions, historical information and stereotypes: Valamir – explicitly compared to Conan the Barbarian (I: 13) – is six feet tall, muscular, tanned, and has long glossy hair (I: 8, 10, 13–6, 36, 181, 185, 205). His usual clothing consists of leather and fur, unless he goes topless entirely or receives a modern-day makeover. He is a capable warrior, extremely loyal and not afraid to use violence to protect the ones he cares about. His sexual appetite is considerable, but he prefers to focus it on a single female companion and proves a considerate lover (I: 184–5, 238–9, 307–24, 326–7, 344–6, 381–5). Valamir is also a gentle soul, a born artisan and surprisingly adaptable to anything modern from learning English within a few weeks to teaching himself driving (I: 164–5, 224–5, 276–7).
This list of qualities could be adapted for most male figures in similar romantic novels, including Jasso’s own mentioned above. Furthermore, the episodes set in the 5th century and the characters acting in this period are described in generic terms. The author is apparently aware of this problem and frequently adds other signals of “historicity”: the dates of Valamir’s origin stories are repeated several times, and we even learn (I: 205) that his birthday is August 17th, AD 456. Especially in moments of great emotionality, he speaks in a language identified each time as “Gothic” (I: 32, 46–8, 60, 63, 88, 157, 199, 309). He prays to and swears in the name of Wodin (I: 46, 73, 196, 211, 231, 310, 342, 363, 366, 374). When asked by Karly, he identifies himself and all Visigoths as Christian with the central belief that Jesus Christ is the son of almighty Wodin. She even checks this against a Wikipedia article to identify the “ancient Germanic Pagan/Old Norse tradition” (I: 114–5). All these attempts cannot deter from the impression that the author chose the Visigoth background as some sort of “clean slate” previously unused in romance novels and therefore creating a bit of novelty attraction, but ultimately a slate to be filled with the established and successful standards of romance writing. Similarly, Jasso realizes that Visigoths are not Celts but nevertheless evokes the parallel through the “vaguely Celtic-looking design” (I: 165) of Valamir’s carvings and the identification of Glismoda’s magic as “Druidic” (I: 4, 86, 93).
The second book of the series[15] – others may follow – proves the point by retelling with only slight variations. According to the author, Untamed Barbarian from 2019 started as a response to a reader who had complained about a loose end, i.e., the fate of Valamir’s brother Andaric.[16] The latter was supposed to have died by the executioner’s hand at the start of the previous novel, but the scene was so sketchy that Jasso could fill in the blanks with the basis of a second Visigoth story: Andaric has escaped, but cannot overcome Glismoda’s Druidic powers (II: 15–6, 18, 22–4). Reluctantly, he helps her kill her husband Jovinus and is poisoned by her for his efforts (II: 35–9, 42–3, 46–8, 51–2). Another self-proclaimed Celtic Druid cures him and uses his blood-bond with Valamir to send the second brother into the future as well (II: 51–6). The 5th century scenes occupy more space than in the previous novel but still remain generic and fantasy-like.
Once the story has reached the year 2018, the similarities to Sweet Barbarian become even more apparent. Admittedly, the female protagonist is a criminal psychologist in Huntington Beach, California, and the opposition is a different felon (the Meadowlark Killer instead of a drug-addled former spouse). Andaric is also more of a womanizer until he settles on his modern-day love interest Kaiya Martinez. Valamir and Karly return and provide the example that Andaric and Kaiya imitate. Like his older brother before him, he learns “the modern way” while still retaining some attractive Barbarian qualities such as his physical and sexual prowess. In the end, the two marry (II: 323), giving Kaiya “pure and total enjoyment of the man she loved, her own personal wild barbarian. For life.”
Andaric’s and Valamir’s Visigoth backstory could easily be exchanged with any different tribal/historical points of reference. In all its arbitrariness, the books reproduce and thus reveal basic “barbarian” stereotypes as well as the twofold attraction of “the Visigoth” in popular culture: on the one hand, the name is familiar enough to allow establishing a (pseudo-)historical framework. On the other hand, it evokes so little actual knowledge that the framework created can be filled and serialized at will for any genre-specific narrative.
Manuel Alfonseca: The Chronicles of the Aeolian Family (2000–2012/2020)
Depending on viewpoint, the Visigoths in our second example could be summarized as “the better” and/or “the necessary barbarians”. The author of the Aeolian trilogy was born in 1946 in Madrid, and studied computer science. In this capacity, he worked for IBM and later as a professor at various Spanish universities. Apart from his academic output, Manuel Alfonseca also writes popular science books and all kinds of fiction from sci-fi to fantasy and historical novels. The Chronicles of the Aeolian Family are the 2020 revised international edition translated into English that will be used for the following discussion. The first versions were published in Spanish in 2000, 2004, and 2012 respectively. La corona tartesia – the third volume that became part three in the 2020 edition as The Tartessian Crown – was awarded the Brújula Award for Children and Young Adult Narrative.[17]
The three novels/parts may be considered edutainment for a younger audience. The texts themselves are rather short, even in the small format of the books only about 170 pages each. The didactic impetus becomes apparent in the paratextual additions: over ten pages of author’s notes and appendixes with historical information, synopsis of ancient and modern place names etc. The narrative is focused on members of the Aeolian family from Caesaraugusta (Zaragoza) who experience crucial points in Roman and Iberian history from the 2nd to the 5th centuries. The style is plain and concentrates on advancing the narrative. Historical settings receive some attention, but historical and fictional characters receive only cursory characterizations. All three novels employ the same basic formulae: the one or two adolescent main characters, usually with a romantic side-story, are on the hunt to retrieve an artifact – a piece of jewelry – that possess a strategic and symbolical meaning. The protagonists have to travel into foreign or even barbarous countries, their adventures frequently returning to religion and cultural tolerance as a leitmotif.
Part 1: The Seal of Aeolus[18] encompasses the years ad 161-166: young Flavius Aeolius has converted to Christianity; his father bullies him into joining the legion to distract him from his faith and friends (I: 3–21). Flavius becomes involved in the conflict between Rome and Parthia, first losing and then recovering from behind enemy lines a ring with his family seal (I: 23–143). In his endeavours, he is supported by a young Jewish woman in Palmyra who later converts to Christianity and returns with him to Spain (I: 145–172).
Book 2: The Emerald Tablet[19]picks up the story in ad 257-260: the siblings Meriem and Lucius Aeolius survive the local persecution against the Christians (II: 3–25). While fleeing through Gaul and as far as Carthage, they track the whereabouts of an emerald tablet, an artefact that had once been in the possession of their father and now turns out to be a coding device (II: 25–96). Meriem experiences an unfulfilled romance with emperor Gallienus and moves him toward more religious tolerance. Lucius fights against the Frankish invaders for the Gallic Empire and its self-proclaimed ruler Postumus before returning to Caesaraugusta (II: 97–167).
Book 3: The Tartessian Crown[20] is set in ad 459: the Visigoths have seized Caesaraugusta from the Suevi and confiscated large parts of Aeolian family estate (III: 5–21). The power struggle is depicted also as a conflict of faith between Arians and Catholics (III: 6–7, 49–53, 117, 156–7). Young Julius Aeolius and his grandfather follow the legend of the Tartessian Crown that supposedly grants its wearer the power to unite Iberia (III: 56–8). The duo flees from Vandal barbarians with the help of Alaric, a young Goth, and the mysterious girl Dido. Their journey takes them to Malta and finally Rome, carrying with them the artifact that they managed to steal from the Vandal king Geiseric in Carthage (III: 63–143). Their Goth companion keeps the Tartessian Crown and forces the company to return from Rome to Tolosa and to Theodoric’s court (III: 145–55). Dido accompanies Julius to his restored family estate, and the young Goth turns out to be future Visigoth king Alaric II (III: 155–9).
Several elements may be considered standards in historical fiction for a younger audience, such as the under-age protagonists acting as witnesses and catalysts of major historical developments.[21] The emphasis on language/terminology, historical and modern place names and geography is also not unusual in edutainment texts.[22] A bit more unusual is Alfonseca’s decision to start all novels in the same region and to choose the mid-5th century ad as an endpoint toward which his trilogy’s overarching story is told. Admittedly, a certain fondness for this period can be ascertained as well in other authors’ adaptations for a young international audience, especially in comic books.[23] The difference in this particular case is a circular narrative that writes three chapters of world history with Zaragoza as starting point. The main story of part three – a quasi-sacred artifact that is fated to unite Iberia – certainly carries political undertones in modern Spain, all the more so when written by an author from Madrid. However, this is as far as the patriotic message goes. Using Alaric II as a focal point, despite him never uniting Iberia and eventually losing to the Franks, requires slightly more explanation on Alfonseca’s part. The author tries to defend his position in a “Final Note,” stating that the “history of the Western Roman Empire during the 5th century is misrepresented in the popular imagination,” with only “some” realizing that Alaric II may be considered “the first Visigoth king of Spain proper, or alternatively the last of the Gallo-Roman Visigoth kingdom” (III: 161).
The future king is still a boy throughout the novel, and also a rather inscrutable character. He is intelligent and tough for his age but seen by the other protagonists as some sort of lone wolf, prone to making important decisions over the heads, if not behind the backs, of others (e.g. III: 152). He and his fellow Visigoths remain at least partly alien to the Roman/Iberian population represented by the Aeolian family. The story ends with Alaric as a matchmaker between Julius and Dido before simply leaving the scene (III: 158–9). It is only toward the end of the “Final Note” that the readers receive an explanation regarding the historical destiny to which the novel has alluded so far: “Although Arian, like his entire family, Alaric II softened the persecution of Catholics, […] and codified the laws applicable to his Spanish-Roman subjects in the Lex Romana Visigothorum, also called Breviary of Alaric” (III: 165). This last circle is finally closed with Reccared I, when “the Goths officially converted to Christianity” (idem). Since the rule of this particular king is the only one in the “Final Note” not cited with a date, some readers will probably not reflect that (and how) the argument has just jumped to the end of the 6th century AD.
Be that as it may, it takes Alfonseca a long time to reach the birth of Catholic Spanish history by the end of the final novel. He acknowledges that this birth was the result of many composites, including several external ones like the Jewish immigrants, the Romans, and Germanic invaders. His novels rarely depict more than two or three individuals from an otherwise faceless group of people, which is why the term “barbarian” can be used so freely and in an only mildly pejorative way (III: 3, 9, 17, 19, 114, 116). There are only a few attempts at scrutiny: we hear that somehow the “Ostrogoth and the Visigoth were originally the same people” (III: 17), and at least once the Goths are declared to be a “race” (III: 32). The rough king Gaiseric stands as pars pro toto for the even more barbaric Vandals who are actually accused of “vandalism” (III: 145; cf. also III: 43). By comparison, this makes the Visigoths and especially Alaric the more civilized barbarians, even though the novel reminds us that they are just as “Germanic” as the Vandals (III: 114).
Throughout the text, some revealing inconsistencies regarding terminology may be identified: Alaric self-identifies as “Goth,” introducing “Hispanic” as the opposite which seems to cover the entire composite culture that has been established in the first two-and-a-half novels (III: 82). The appendix translates “Hispania” as “the Iberian Peninsula” (III: 167), reducing the more generic usage of the term “Iberian” as found throughout the books to a geographical aspect. The sudden occurrence of “Spanish-Roman” in the series epilogue (III: 165) already has been mentioned above. All in all, the Visigoths are either the necessary barbarians, a building block in the centuries of developing the basis of (Catholic) Spanish history – or they are better barbarians being able to learn, unite, and create.
Charlotte Jardine: The Visigoth Chronicles (2018-?)
Our third example seems like a mixture between the former two. The Visigoth Chronicles is the work of Charlotte Jardine, a trained classicist from New Zealand. Her self-proclaimed intention behind the first two novels was to fill the void created by the scarce evidence for the period with a young female role model.[24] A third volume is mentioned by the author, but has not been announced or even named so far. Other projects for narratives set in late antiquity seem to have been put on halt as well. In the meantime, Charlotte Jardine has expanded her series of Victorian romance novels named Ladies of the Lamp.[25] The Visigoth Chronicles are advertised for a young adult readership; however, the narrative style, choice of characters, amount of graphic violence and other factors seem to suggest more of a “youths of all ages” target audience.
Jaws of the Wolf and Shadow of the Eagle were released in 2018.[26] Similar to Alfonseca’s works, the actual novels are rather short with a mere 260 and 230 pages, respectively, but they are enhanced through a considerable amount of paratextual additions ranging from maps, lists of characters and glossaries for terms from ancient languages to author’s notes and historical explanations. Jardine attempts to emphasize the historicity of the setting by starting the series with a detailed discussion of ancient sources, terminology, and identity. In summary: the numerous tribes whom the Romans identify as “Goths” (I: 174, 206–9; II: 18, 31, 36, 47, 49, 73, 141–2, 180) are actually divided into the Ostrogoth Greuthungi and the Visigoth Tervingi (ix–x in both volumes). The decision to have the protagonists’ group refer to themselves as “Tervingi” in the latinized form is made “because it sounded more like a tribal name” (IX in both volumes). One has to assume that in the case of the series’ title, The Visigoth Chronicles, this previous decision was dropped for marketing considerations.
The story of the first novel takes place throughout the course of a single year, ad 376, starting in a Visigoth/Tervingi settlement north of the Danube. The chapters switch between the perspectives of the two young protagonists: Gervina, a 16-year-old freeborn, is friends with Adafuns, a slave in her father’s household. She is secretly teaching him fighting skills, until her father intervenes and prepares her for marriage with Widin, a self-romanized Tervingi nobleman (I: 1–35). Gelvira and other villagers fight off an attack by Hun raiders, but a number of people including Adafuns are taken captive. Gelvira seeks divine help and links her own fate to that of her missing friend (35–60). The Tervingi’s attempts to ally with the Greuthungi delay Widin’s plans of marriage. Meanwhile, Adafuns earns the respect of the Huns by learning their language, way of living and fighting, while harboring plans to escape back to Gelvira (I: 60–112).
After all defensive plans have failed, the majority of Tervingi noblemen led by Fritigern decide to move the tribes south of the Danube, seeking protection from Emperor Valens. Adafuns overhears the Huns’ plan for a permanent occupation of the Tervingi lands, but his attempt to flee and warn his countrymen is thwarted by a rival slave (I: 113–157). The Tervingi are divided when the Romans ask for demilitarization and conversion to Christianity before granting new lands in Thrace. Gelvira is shocked by Widin and his plan to accept even more victims to stage a political coup, which is halted when a mass panic causes a hasty crossing of the Danube (I: 158–81). Adafuns rises to the status of a free warrior, successfully raiding Roman and Greuthungi trade routes. Broken Roman promises lead to unrest among the Tervingi. Fritigern’s faction tries to ally with northern tribes in a revolt, using Gelvira as an inconspicuous facilitator; Widin’s faction is willing to make further concessions to the Romans in exchange for support against Fritigern (I: 182–245). In a ritualistic duel, Adafuns kills the traitor who had prevented his escape, thus becoming accepted as a Hun tribe member, yet still vows Gelvira his love (I: 246–262).
Apart from a number of rather generic explanations about political organization, food or jewelry, the Visigoths/Tervingi in Jaws of the Wolf remain surprisingly characterless. How they actually differ from the Greuthungi for instance, is anyone’s guess. For the Huns, the author laments a lack of source material (I: 266–7; II: 235), but ironically succeeds in painting a more vivid picture. At first glance, the aggressors seem to fulfil the same role as the Vandals in The Chronicles of the Aeolian Family: even to the robust Tervingi, they appear to be brutal fiends, barbarians, half-animals or just plain monsters (e.g. I: 64, 78, 117, 162). However, the shift of perspective in the Adafuns chapters reveal that this may be mere strategy, at least in some aspects. The Huns are aware of their superior riding equipment and bows, yet also utilize their animalistic reputation and barbaric appearance to cause terror and command respect (I: 88, 91–2, 162, 267). From this perspective, they can even accuse the Tervingi of being “barbarians” because they have adopted the custom of slavery (I: 98, 184) – which, truth be told, the Huns soon do as well.
A certain link between the novel’s various tribal cultures is the focus on polytheism. There are over a hundred instances of Tervingi and Huns using the names of gods in greetings, praises, and oaths. Characters can even reflect which god is best suited for a specific task, or that sometimes, the gods might work together to create a particular astonishing outcome (e.g., I: 49, 112, 150). Christianity, on the other hand, is only mentioned in a Gibbonesque function: a weakening factor in the Roman Empire that already has infected some Tervingi but has spared the Huns so far (I: 69, 133, 203). Not even a syncretic belief seems to be tolerable (I: 169–70). Within this non-Christian world, odd fantasy elements find a way into the story: some kinds of Tervingi magic such as Gelvira’s “dream link” with Adafuns can be objectively effective (I: 54–6, 77–8, 123–4, 134–5, 158, 163; cf. also II: 1–2, 56, 188–9).
The second novel, Shadow of the Eagle, makes up leeway on the promise of the strong heroine: Gelvira volunteers to be sold to a rich Roman in Thrace, intending to recruit her fellow slaves as combatants for Fritigern’s uprising. To her surprise, the house slaves prove indifferent or even hostile – unlike Marcus, the charming son of the master (II: 1–51). Gelvira is forced to earn a better standing in the household through her skills as a jeweler and magically aided healer, caring for slaves and the sickly Marcus alike (II: 52–95). Meanwhile, her father approaches Adafuns and the Huns as an envoy, seeking to hire the clan as mercenaries for Fritigern against the Romans (II: 96–104). Gelvira’s new privileges allow her a secret meeting with her fiancée Widin as well as with another Tervingi slave, both of whom encourage her plans for rebellion (II: 105–30). Gelvira gets caught, but manages to escape, just when Adafuns and the Huns arrive to lead the uprising to victory (II: 131–161). With the slaves fleeing and the Roman province in uproar, Fritigern turns his forces north. Adafuns and Gelvira follow, realizing the dilemma between their feelings for each other and their social obligations (II: 162–97). Back in the Tervingi camp, Widin persuades his rival to return to the Huns. Widin’s father attempts to kill Gelvira for her knowledge of his intrigues against Fritigern, but accidentally slaughters his own son instead, and is himself killed by the returning Adafuns (II: 198–224). Gelvira, now free of her vows, joins her lover in the camp of the Huns who approve the union (II: 225–9).
The second part of The Visigoth Chronicles strengthens the previous findings: the Tervingi/Visigoths are merely used for novelty’s sake, and their description remains as vague as they themselves are irrelevant to the actual story. In Shadow of the Eagle, Jardine as a trained classicist is obviously glad to have reached the solid grounds of Roman history. Accordingly, on the first few dozen pages alone she introduces the Roman name system (II: 7–8), Roman gods and festivals (II: 32–4, 39–51), Roman patronage (II: 59) and many other cultural details. The Visigoths can apparently be called a “race” (II: 146), but the narrative offers almost no defining characteristics for such a group label. Unlike the very individual Romans and Huns, almost all Visigoth characters are bland and interchangeable. The two protagonists could have made a difference, but Adafuns is portrayed mainly in relation to the Huns and self-identifies as a member of their tribe. The description of Gelvira is so focused on higher issues – slavery and humanity, empowerment and female heroism – that her cultural background is easily forgotten. Among the few individual elements are her Visigoth magic and adherence to the old gods which frequently cause conflict with Christianity (II: 42, 109, 136–7, 141, 184). When she finally tries to honor her cultural obligation, she is nearly killed for her troubles and saved by someone who has left this background behind. Even more than in the first novel, the Huns receive increasingly positive descriptions as pragmatic and capable warriors, loveable ruffians, and even wise matchmakers. By comparison, the Visigoths deteriorate into the role of generic serial barbarians.
Visigoths and the World of Serial Narratives
The image presented in the three case studies is certainly not representative of all 21st-century historical novels, and readers may be able to point out more felicitous examples. Our question, however, was how the Visigoths fare in the sub-genre of serial novels with their specific mechanics and rules. In that context, the little attention they receive in mainstream culture turns out to be a blessing as well as a curse: on the one hand, it is easy to fill generic concepts of “the” historical and/or fantastic barbarians with “Visigoth,” creating anything from true to noble savages, with or without a sexual component. It is just as simple to rearrange the narrative context: Russo takes the barbarians out of their world; Alfonseca places them within the larger scope of the Roman world; Jardine gives them a more regional focus. In any of these cases, the Visigoths are evaluated by comparing them to other non-civilized people, be it drug-addled felons (Visigoth Barbarians), Vandals (Chronicles of the Aeolian Family), or Huns (Visigoth Chronicles).
Repetition as the fundamental strategy of serial narratives allows the authors to enforce or develop this assessment – maybe even to utilize it for a meta-message like the fateful origins of Spanish identity. On the other hand, the authors cannot rely on their readers to fill in blanks with previous knowledge about Visigoth characters and history. If the books fail to deliver relatable narratives and characters with unique features, “Visigoth” remains an empty label. Even worse, the repetitions of serial narration work like a grinding wheel, creating a mass of interchangeable – and ultimately irrelevant – elements.
So why choose the Visigoths at all? Russo’s Visigoth Barbarians is honest about its limited interest in their history and culture beyond a level that can be gained from a Wikipedia search. The series is about delivering a familiar (and popular) dish, adding just a pinch of new seasoning. Alfonseca’s Chronicles of the Aeolian Family and Jardine’s Visigoth Chronicles share a key element of serial edutainment: a self-proclaimed interest to teach and reinforce historical content through entertaining narratives. Whether these attempts are successful (and how one might define “success” in this regard), would be a question for quantitative and qualitative impact studies. New research indicates that all of the distinctive features available in this form of narrative-based learning pose risks as well as potentials.[27] So, speaking from a personal point of view, The Chronicles of the Aeolian Family may be limited in aesthetic regards, emotional address and historical detail, but at least the series is consequent and consistent in the way it places Visigoth history within a Spanish origin story. The Visigoth Chronicles illustrate why a greater volume of author knowledge does not necessarily translate into a better historical novel. No amount of paratextual additions can compensate for a lack of focus on the supposed key topic.
Objectively speaking, there is no reason why Alaric or Fritigern – or any entirely fictional Visigoth character for that matter – should not become the nucleus of a new popular serial narrative tradition. All it would take, would be a successful “big bang,” similar to when the Quo Vadis? novel spurred the tradition of Ursus, the Christian strong-man, among many others[28] What Henryk Sienkiewicz caused as an unintentional side effect, could also be done in the way of Robert E. Howard: combining historical, mythological and fantastical elements to fabricate the narrative world of Conan the Barbarian that has endured its creator and is still expanded with every new retelling.[29] Until that “big bang” happens, Valamir, Gelvira and all the others remain indicators of unrealized potential, serial barbarians without the prospect of serial continuation.
NOTES
[1] I thank my colleagues for the helpful input on various stages of this manuscript, in particular Antonio Duplá Ansuategui (Vitoria-Gasteiz), Penelope Goodman (Leeds), and Michael Kleu (Cologne).
[2] For an attempt to situate the novels into a wider context of serial narrative practices, see Birgit Schlachter, Literale Praktiken und literarische Verstehensprozesse im Feld der Serialität: Eine rekonstruktive Studie (Wiesbaden: Springer 2020).
[3] Cf. Knut Hickethier, “The Same Procedure: Die Wiederholung als Medienprinzip der Moderne,” in Die Wiederholung, ed. Jürgen Felix et al. (Marburg: Schüren, 2001): 41–62.
[4] The term “meme” was introduced by evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins in The Selfish Gene (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976); still the best introduction into the theoretical framework is Susan Blackmore, The Meme Machine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). The transfer of the concept to cultural and social sciences has been frequently criticized, e.g., by Dan Sperber, “An Objection to the Memetic Approach to Culture,” in Darwinizing Culture: The State of Memetics as a Science, ed. Robert Aunger (Oxford: Oxford University press, 2003): 163–73. Nevertheless, the approach has – to varying degrees and success – been used in classical studies as well, see e.g., Ben Cullen, Contagious Ideas: On Evolution, Culture, Archaeology, and Cultural Virus Theory (Oxford: Oxbow, 2000).
[5] As modern research has done, see e.g., Laurel Fulkerson and Tim Stover, eds., Repeat Performances: Ovidian Repetition and the Metamorphoses (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2013).
[6] To name but two recent publications on the subject: Cristina Baldacci et al., eds., Over and Over and Over Again: Reenactment Strategies in Contemporary Arts and Theory (Berlin: ICI Berlin Press, 2022); Elke Schumann, ed., Wiedererzählen: Formen und Funktionen einer kulturellen Praxis (Bielefeld: transcript, 2015).
[7] For an introduction to genre and medium, see Graham Law, Serializing Fiction in the Victorian Press (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2000); Daniel Stein and Lisanna Wiele, eds., Nineteenth-Century Serial Narrative in Transnational Perspective, 1830s-1860s: Popular Culture – Serial Culture (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019).
[8] Cf. Jonas Prida, ed., Conan Meets the Academy: Multidisciplinary Essays on the Enduring Barbarian (Jefferson: MacFarland, 2013) and Todd B. Vick, Renegades and Rogues. The Life and Legacy of Robert E. Howard (Austin: University of Texas Press: 2020): 171–90.
[9] For the narrative and ideological context see Klaus von See, Barbar, Germane, Arier: Die Suche nach der Identität der Deutschen (Heidelberg: Winter, 1994); on the source tradition see Christopher B. Krebs, A Most Dangerous Book: Tacitus’s Germania from the Roman Empire to the Third Reich (New York: Norton, 2011).
[10] My sample therefore excludes, e.g., José Soto Chica, Los Visigodos: Hijos de un dios furioso (Madrid: Desperta Ferro, 2020) and Santiago Castellanos, Barbarus: La conquista de Roma (Barcelona: Ediciones B, 2015). For additional titles see http://libros.historicodigital.com/category/reinos-peninsulares/epoca-visigoda/ (accessed: February 21, 2022).
[11] On the concepts of paratexts and authorship see Gérard Genette, Seuils (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 2002); Martin Gerstenbräun-Krug and Nadja Reinhard, eds., Paratextuelle Politik und Praxis: Interdependenzen von Werk und Autorschaft (Vienna: Böhlau, 2018); Matti Peikola and Birte Bös, eds., The Dynamics of Text and Framing Phenomena: Historical Approaches to Paratext and Metadiscourse in English (Amsterdam: Benjamins, 2020).
[12] https://www.jaylajasso.com/ (accessed: February 21, 2022).
[13] Jayla Jasso, Visigoth Barbarians 1: Sweet Barbarian (n/a: self-published / Amazon Fulfillment, 2016).
[14] This and other autobiographical issues discussed among the readers led Jayla Jasso to a reply on her own website: https://www.jaylajasso.com/2019/06/the-much-debated-vegan-recipes-of-sweet.html (accessed: February 21, 2022).
[15] Jayla Jasso, Visigoth Barbarians 1: Untamed Barbarian (n/a: self-published / Amazon Fulfillment, 2019).
[16] https://www.jaylajasso.com/2019/06/announcing-unplanned-sequel-to-sweet.html (accessed: February 21, 2022).
[17] https://premiolabrujula.es/ (accessed: 21 February 2022).
[18] Manuel Alfonseca, The Chronicles of the Aeolian Family 1: The Seal of Aeolus (Madrid: self-published / Amazon Fulfillment, 2020).
[19] Manuel Alfonseca, The Chronicles of the Aeolian Family 2: The Emerald Tablet (Madrid: self-published / Amazon Fulfillment, 2020).
[20] Manuel Alfonseca, The Chronicles of the Aeolian Family 3: The Tartessian Crown (Madrid: self-published / Amazon Fulfillment, 2020).
[21] To name but a few analyses of the subject: Sylvie Geerts and Sara Van den Bossche, eds., Never-ending Stories: Adaptation, Canonisation, and Ideology in Children’s Literature (Gent: ACC, 2014); Max Kunze, ed., Auf zum Olymp: Antike in Kinderbüchern aus sechs Jahrhunderten (Mainz: Rutzen, 2005); Helen Lovatt, “Asterisks and Obelisks: Classical Receptions in Children’s Literature,” in International Journal of the Classical Tradition 16, nos. 3+4 (2009): 508–22; Katarzyna Marciniak, ed., Our Mythical Childhood…The Classics and Literature for Children and Young Adults (Boston and Leiden: Brill, 2016); Lisa Maurice, ed., The Reception of Ancient Greece and Rome in Children’s Literature: Heroes and Eagles (Boston and Leiden: Brill, 2015).
[22] One might think, e.g., of the Caius novels written by Henry Winterfeld in the 1950s to 1970s, but also of The Roman Mysteries series (2001-2009) by Caroline Lawrence.
[23] Adolfo De Mingo-Lorente, “De fibulas y viñetas: El mundo visigodo en el comic,” in Arte, Individuo y Sociedad 34, no. 1 (2022): 389–408.
[24] https://thisiswriting.com/interview-charlotte-jardine-jaws-of-the-wolf/ (accessed: March 7, 2022). In the same interview, she cites Kate Quinn – famous for her The Empress of Rome Saga – and the Roman Mysteries by Caroline Lawrence as her main influences, see above n. 22.
[25] https://charlottejardine.com/ (accessed: March 7, 2022).
[26] Charlotte Jardine, The Visigoth Chronicles 1: Jaws of the Wolf (n/a: self-published / Griffon Press, 2018). Charlotte Jardine, The Visigoth Chronicles 2: Shadow of the Eagle (n/a: self-published / Griffon Press, 2018).
[27] One of the most comprehensive models focusing on the factors of dramatization, emotionalization, personalization, and fictionalization is outlined by Manuela Glaser et al., “Narrative-Based learning: Possible Benefits and Problems,” in Communications: The European Journal of Communication Research 34, no. 4 (2009): 429–47.
[28] On context and impact see Ruth Scodel and Anja Bettenworth, Whither Quo vadis? Sienkiewicz’s Novel in Film and Television (Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009).
[29] See above n. 8.
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Visigothic Symposia 