~WE ARE EXCITED TO HAVE, CAMELIA MIRON SKIBA WITH US TODAY~
How hard is it to writer historical fiction/romance with authenticity?
CS: There is no easy answer to this question. Because fiction means free imagination, authenticity means real. So the answer lies somewhere in the middle.
I think as an author it’s important to create believable stories using the tools provided to us by the fictional world. Like everything else, writing in the historical genre—romance or not—requires a lot of research. I want my readers to feel like they are transported to that particular era, among those heroes, living through their eyes with the resources of that time. And trust me, their resources were limited, primitive and frugal.
For as long as I remember I loved history. And not just what happened 100 or 200 years ago but the kind of history that tells tales of the beginning of time and stories mankind left to us on silk maps, handwritten papyrus, and relics. The kind of history that tells stories of nations being shaped, wars, and unknown heroes. Have you ever wondered what would the US be today had Columbus not discovered this beautiful land? Or what Europe’s borders might be today had the Romans not conquered most of it?
I know I do wonder. And I had to delve into it. I was always curious how it all began (let’s not think about the fact that curiosity killed the cat. I’m very much alive J). To some people that type of history sounds boring. To me, well, I like to imagine that each one of those men making history wanted something more than to conquer a new territory, a new castle or own more slaves; they wanted love.
Compared to a lot of historical romance authors who have to do a lot of research I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Why? Because my origins stem 2000 years ago when the Roman Empire conquered the land of Dacia, Romania of today. I had a lot of history to learn growing up in the land of Dracula (and no, I haven’t met Edward Cullen &Co. while growing up nor do vampires roam freely around the country).
History tells that Roman soldiers combined with Dacian women. I use “combine” on purpose because they didn’t marry them as they were beneath their status as victors, but rather enslaved them. I try not to think much about how the Romans took Dacian women by force, but I do know that, that exact moment when the first child was born out of such a union marked the birth of the Romanian nation. And I had to put my own spin on this very historical moment.
Enter my series Dacian Legends and my Dacian warriors: Ilias, Zyraxes, Galtys, Ursus and Vipero. Alone naming my heroes as such was part of the research because all these names are Latin names (for instance Ursus means bear, and Vipero means viper).
Ilias, the main hero of Born In Vengeance is the bastard son of the last Dacian King. He lives for one thing and one thing only: vengeance. Ironically he finds love in his thirst for vengeance.
Next in series is Born In Sin. Zyraxes, the main hero wanted his story told as well. It surprised me how helplessly in love he was from the beginning, so different than Ilias to whom love came later, or at least when he finally acknowledge it.
I have to admit that each one of my characters has a special place in my heart, but for some reason the connection I have with these five warriors it’s more profound, more intense, probably because they symbolize (aside from being darn handsome, fearless and broken) my passion for history and romance.
Thank you so much for spending time with us! What an interesting tale.
Links to connect with Camelia:
WEBSITE: LOVE. WITHOUT YOU http://authorcameliamironskiba.com/
BORN IN SIN –Dacian Legends, # 2
release date 05/30/2013
Book Title: BORN IN SIN
Author: CAMELIA MIRON SKIBA
Genre(s): HISTORICAL DRAMA/ROMANCE
Who am I? Before Bastisza spoke to me I knew. Now … not anymore. I was the son of Polpium per Flavius, mender for King Decebalus. My mother the beautiful Medina of who people spoke as if she were a goddess. We lived a simple life in King Decebalus’ fortress with Father helping the ill, Mother embroidering for the king’s family, and me playing with Ilias, Galtys, and Ursus, daydreaming of the warriors we were meant to become. Mother taught me how to sing. Father shared his knowledge of herbs and medicinal remedies. I lived a sheltered life and had no siblings. Or so I thought.
Until one ill-fated night when everything changed.
I think of all the beds I’ve shared, women without a name or place where I shan’t return. Never more than a fleeting night spent in their arms, never so much as a wandering thought. They desired someone to warm their beds and who was I to deny their pleasures? Compared to Oriana their memories wither as darkness yielding to a new day.
DACIAN LEGENDS, #1
Legend has it … centuries after Spartacus another hero is born—Ilias, the bastard son of King Decebalus. Thirsty for revenge and eager to unshackle the Roman oppression, Ilias’ obsession to fulfill his oath has no bounds, even if that means kidnapping Nerva, the beloved daughter of Emperor Traianus. What he doesn’t know is his own heart threatens to betray his conscience.
What will prevail: his mind or his heart?
Horror pains Oriana’s face when she sees me. I wouldn’t recognize her had I seen her in a crowd. Dark bruises mar her jaw and right temple. Her hair, once beautifully braided, is now a dry mud and straw-tangled mass, framing a deadly pale face. She strains to get up, but she’s too weak. “We are lost,” she cries, “why did you bring him?”
I rush to Oriana’s side, pain splitting my heart in pieces. “My queen, you don’t recognize me?”
“Oh, Zyraxes, why did you come? You shan’t see me this way …” Oriana hides her face behind Thera’s shoulder, tugging at the torn rag covering her fragile body. She struggles to sit up, but she falls back on the ground with a cry.
“Oriana …” I place a hand on her arm, then withdraw it. She’s hot to the touch, feverishly hot. Seeing the queen of my heart so hurt and broken is harder than her rejection. I must save her, I must. The knot in my throat chokes me. I haven’t cried since my mother died.
“Oriana … remember when you broke your wrist?” I have to whisper or she’ll know how weak I am, tears of helplessness brimming my eyes.
With a little spark in her glassy blue eyes, she holds her right wrist at her chest. More bruises cover both her arms, her left hand wrapped in a dirty cloth.
I pray she remembers. Her nod gives me hope.
“Remember the splinter and the bandages I wrapped your arm in and told you not to remove for three weeks?” She nods again. I take her wrist and kiss it, then stroke it. At first she tries to pull away, but now her arm rests in my hand. “And remember how I threatened to tell your father about you climbing the tree when you took it off only a week later?”
Oriana smiles between tears. Her voice is above a whisper, “I do not want you to see me this way …”
“I am not. I only see you need my aid. Please, Oriana, let me serve you. Please?”
~ OFFICIAL BIO ~
Who I was yesterday … I’m no longer today, nor will I be tomorrow. Each day I grow a little. I stumble, get up, and learn something. I wish and dream and want and look to the future.
Who I am is not important, but what I leave behind is.
Copyright © 2013 CAMELIA MIRON SKIBA
WEBSITE: LOVE. WTHOUT YOU http://authorcameliamironskiba.com/
AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE: Camelia Miron Skiba