by

Jardonn Smith

These days it seems anybody can hang a sign on their web address door and proclaim themselves to be reviewers of books.

Many are book lovers who shell out the bucks and are inclined to express their likes/dislikes, regardless of their abilities to coherently analyze reasons for their likes/dislikes.

Others have signed up at review sites so they can get free books to read, their purchase price being their agreeing to review the books, again regardless of their abilities to coherently… (see above).

Still more have a hidden agenda, either to purposely promote authors in their little clique, or purposely denigrate authors not in their little clique. Some of these reviews are written by authors themselves with an agenda impossible to hide: trashing books written by their competition.

What are the poor readers to do? How do they determine which review sites are truly giving them honest opinions, so they can decide where to shell out their hard-earned money for books they will enjoy? It’s a crap shoot, no doubt, but I can honestly vouch for one specializing in male on male erotic romance.

Elisa Rolle’s My Reviews and Ramblings

Not only is this classy lady from Padua, Italy a reader of manlove romance titles, her appetite for them is voracious. Ms. Rolle devours an incredible number of books weekly, and not only does she gain keen insight from what she’s read, she shares her thoughts via her self-written book reviews. Elisa favors no particular publishers or authors. She has no rating systems for books she reads. Her reviews are detailed, well-organized, and invaluable to not only her fellow-readers, but the authors as well. I’ve lost count of the comments I’ve seen on her site from authors who tell her she found personality traits in their characters even they didn’t recognize existed. I am no exception. Ms. Rolle’s review of my Danube Divide taught me much about the men in my own story.

So, any manlove fiction lovers out there looking for ideas on what next to read, Elisa Rolle’s site is a must-visit-daily for you, and as if reviews weren’t already enough, lately Elisa started what she calls The Inside Reader where authors and readers list their all-time favorite LGBT books.

That’s where one of our own comes in. Just check out the names on this list which includes William Maltese.

The Inside Reader: Geoffrey Knight

Yes, we claim him. William is ours. One of our MLR Press authors, and we intend to never let him go.

The Battle of Hadrianopolis, 378 AD, Roman legions versus Gothic warriors — ancient historian Ammianus called it the worst defeat in Roman history since Cannae. Theologian Rufinus said it was the beginning of evils for the Roman Empire then and thereafter.

Fifteen thousand Romans, two-thirds of the Eastern Empire Legionary forces, lay dead or dying on a Thracian plain, but for four men on opposite sides of the battlefied, no conflicts of cultures, religions or territorial boundaries could keep them apart. Nor could the mighty river that separated their homelands — The Danube. Despite all obstacles, these men will find their way to conquer the Danube Divide.

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Perspective

It is a stench like no other: the foul odors of the battlefield, the end of it, the dead and the dying. Sights and sounds are equally gut-wrenching, but unlike the smells, they don’t stay with a man. It is the stench that permeates his being forever, constantly returning to haunt him, rekindled by the most common of unrelated aromas-meats raw or cooked, fruits fresh or rotten, flowering plants pleasant or pungent-all are channeled from his nose to his brain, reminding him of what he saw, what he heard, and what he did.

The scope of this battlefield is unimaginable. Fifteen thousand Romans lay dead or dying. Had the sun not set, another five thousand would have joined them. Only darkness prevented their Goth combatants from slaughtering those few who did escape.

Under a twilight sky shrouded in fire smoke, the aftermath and its smells and sounds create nightmares. Some of the cavalry horses continue their struggle to stand, with hooves and legs severed, with arrows imbedded in their flanks, gashes from swords and spears penetrating deep into their breasts. And in their struggles they mercilessly, and mercifully, kick and crush the men laying all around them, the dying. Screeches of animals are equaled in volume by the gasping groans and pitiful pleadings of humans begging for medical assistance or death, but powerless to bring about either. It is the Germanics, the victors, who will end their misery, if and when they choose to do so.

In the heat of an August afternoon, in the clouds of dust, in the smoke of grassfire on a Thracian battlefield, in the stench of a foreboding future for Rome itself, the Battle of Hadrianopolis, 378 AD, sent shockwaves throughout the Empire East and West, along with a clear message-the Empire’s superiority was no more. No borders safe, no city a refuge.

“Good grief, Theo! Who wrote this?”

“Who do you think?”

“Drusus.”

“Right you are, Gregoric. Looks like he has finally started his memoirs.”

“He’s so dramatic. And the smells. Always talking about the smells.”

“Yes, well, it is one of the few things he remembers correctly. Guess where he’s gone.”

“Into the city? Selling our crops?”

“Right again, Gregoric.”

“You better go see if you can talk some sense into him, Theo. He’ll be in the agora making speeches. Telling of long-forgotten battles nobody cares about.”

“Yes, and the merchants will be threatening to have him arrested for disrupting their business.”

“Just like last year. Poor Drusus. He’s old, tired, and confused. He should come and join us.”

“He will join us when he’s damned good and ready, Gregoric.”

“I know, Theo. I am sorry. Go speak to him. Try and convince him to come home, while I prepare the readers for our story.”

“Ah, good idea, Gregoric! Tell it from the barbarian point of view.”

“Yes, we will. Historians usually make us the villains, which is not necessarily the case.”

“Better try to limit the big story best we can, though. Tell more about us and less about everybody else.”

“Agreed, Theo. Romans and Germanics as background, but we are the story. Now, go, before Drusus gets beaten to a bloody pulp.”

Greetings from Ephesus, the once-glorious city on the eastern shores of the Aegean Sea. From time to time we are allowed (by powers we are forbidden to name) a visit to the villa three miles south of the city where Theo and I once lived-when we were of the flesh. Drusus lives here still, just an old man all alone in a house perched on a cliff one hundred feet above the beach. Make no mistake, we are sent here to protect Drusus from himself. He has lived too long and gets further confused if I try speaking to him, but usually he understands Theo.

Drusus takes his annual walk to Ephesus trying to sell crops no longer planted in fields no longer cultivated. The shipping agents are gone. The harbor itself is useless, filled with silt from the Cayster River. Ocean-going ships can no longer enter, but Drusus forgets.

Theo and I lived a good, full life, a span of more than seventy years. We are Germanics, paternal cousins, Theo four years younger than I. Theo is the son of Erenfried; I am of Magneric. We are nephews of their brother, Alberic, tribal leader of Tervingi Goths, and it was our ancestors who, sadly, ransacked Ephesus in 262 AD and burned the glorious temple of the goddess Artemis, whose temple was two times larger than the Parthenon in Athens. Emperor Constantine rebuilt Ephesus sixty-some-odd years later, but the Artemis temple ruins were left to rot. Poor Artemis, no longer the deity of choice!

A few years after the temple’s destruction, the original owners of our estate built this house. Some materials salvaged from the Artemis temple were used in its construction. From the west-side windows and porticoes of the house, we can see the Aegean and its rolling shimmer, smell its saline freshness. Many a glorious sunset did I watch from my portico, and at times I imagined I could see all the way to Thessalia. I couldn’t, of course, but I dreamed it because of a man who came from there. He is my part of the story. Theo is responsible for Drusus.

Titus Drusus Latinius is a Roman citizen, born in Macedonia to a military father, a Roman patrician killed in battle before Drusus reached the age of two. When eighteen years old, Drusus joined the Roman legions. Theo found him laying on the battlefield of which Drusus wrote. The scene was just as he described it. Gut-wrenching, even for us, the victors, Gothic tribes of Tervingi, Greuthingi and Alans, along with our temporary allies, the Huns. Our tale does not begin in a field near Hadrianopolis, but Drusus’s part in it does, so that is where Theo will start, if he ever…

“Oh, good, there you are. Is he coming?”

“Yes, Gregoric, but he will take his time. A three-mile walk, and you know how Drusus loves to meander along the shoreline.”

“Water brings him pleasant memories, Theo.”

“Me, too. Are we set?”

“Yes. Tell them how you met your handsome young Roman soldier.”

Now, let’s talk about J.P. Bowie, William Maltese, Victor Banis, and me. Our book about working-class tough guys, Hard Working Men, is a Lammie finalist for best gay erotica. Publicly, I’ve tried to stay low-key about this, but emails keep showing up to wish me well and remind me how fortunate I am to have received such recognition. Some go on to add that I’m damn lucky to be part of a book which includes J.P. Bowie, and especially, William Maltese and Victor Banis, and that this probably is the main reason our book is on the list of finalists. Hmm… maybe, but I hope not.

There’s no question those two names brought attention to the book, which has also translated into good sales, but as for the award, I hope there’s more to it than that. Surely the Lambda Literary Foundation’s board didn’t simply say, “Oh, look, here’s William Maltese and Victor Banis together in one book. Throw those two icons a bone and put it on the list.” In other words, what they wrote is unimportant, only their names.

I’m certain the Lambda folks made their decision because they read the book. When I read it I see four distinct stories with characters diverse, each one having his own method for functioning as a gay man in the tough world of blue-collar laborers. These are occupations where first impressions can make or break a man, and it has nothing to do with sexual preference or geographical location. Having been there and done that, I can tell you I’ve seen numerous incidents of men (and women) being driven from the work site because they couldn’t take the razzing. Didn’t know how to deal with it. Couldn’t distinguish between which men were truly assholes (a few) and which were simply teasing (most), hoping the newbie would give it right back to them. For those who don’t, the work place becomes a living hell for them, because it only gets worse day after day until they leave the job thinking it’ll be different somewhere else. It won’t be. Not until they learn how to handle it as the men in our book have done.

Each of our men deals with the macho business at their work place just fine. As for their private lives, our characters are talented here as well. One fellow likes it, knows how to get it, and takes it time and again until he runs across something permanent. Another is on the rebound, pulls up his boot straps and finds a man who’s worth fighting for. One likes to do it, but isn’t ready to commit, or even face the fact he is what he is. Another had a taste of it with his buddy in high school, but his pal wasn’t ready, and so with patience he waits until years later when circumstances allow his buddy to see who it was that truly loved him all along.

These four stories certainly fit the criteria for the Lammie Award — quality literature representing a diverse range of gay men, and yes, I admit it, I am damn lucky. Fortunate the call went out for a blue-collar anthology and my story made the book. Everything from there fell into place in ways better than could have been planned. The publisher, Laura Baumback of MLR Press recognized the potential impression these four stories inside one cover could have on the reader. The editor, Kris Jacen, helped the authors, well, at least this one named Jardonn, whip his story into the best read it could possibly be. Even the cover artist, Deanna Jamroz, came up with not one but two tantalizing covers, the first model having to be replaced after the book’s release for reasons not of my concern.

End result, whether we take the Lammie top prize or not, I will for the rest of my days know I am part of something very special — a book titled Hard Working Men.