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There was a time when I used to joke that I wished I could date Achilles. Strong. Golden. Fierce. Ruthless when it mattered. The kind of man myth remembers, and the kind history warns us about. Achilles is both the glory and the grief of the Iliad, the warrior whose brilliance burned as hot as the fires of Troy itself. As I began writing The Homeric Chronicles, I quickly realized the story I wanted to tell was far larger than enthusiasm alone could carry. I was not ready, not yet. I needed years of reading, years of writing, and the courage to confront the full scope of these stories: war and love, blood and longing, triumph and ruin. Greek myth does not flinch from the extremes of human experience, and neither could I. From the beginning, my vision was to create a sweeping narrative, one vast and interconnected epic in which the lives of heroes and heroines converge at Troy and ripple outward into the generations that follow. That vision demanded structure, and structure demanded chronology. I found myself pulling at strands of myth, tracing lineages, comparing fragments, and piecing together events that had never before been fully aligned into a continuous historical arc. The late George Shipway, author of Warrior in Bronze, once warned readers that “...it would be a rash scribbler who ventured on definite dates.” I became that rash scribbler, though not recklessly. With sources spread across my desk and timelines scratched into notebooks, I began the long labor of ordering myth into sequence. Shipway’s own timeline falls only about seventeen years from mine, a reminder that serious minds approaching the same material often arrive at strikingly similar conclusions. Writing realistic mythology is no simple task, especially Greek mythology, where the broad outlines of the stories are already familiar to so many readers. The challenge is not invention, but interpretation. Not distortion, but illumination. From the outset, I made a deliberate choice. I would not twist the myths into alternate endings, nor shift the focus onto minor observers to retell familiar tales from the margins. I had no interest in merely repeating the Iliad and the Odyssey in prose. Those stories already exist in their immortal form. Instead, The Homeric Chronicles was conceived as something different: a chronological epic that follows the rise of kingdoms, the forging of alliances, the breaking of oaths, and the relentless pull of prophecy that draws heroes toward Troy and beyond. To build this world, I relied not only on myth, but on history. Archaeological data from Troy, Asia Minor, and mainland Greece shaped geography and culture. Scholarly literature informed political structure and material life. My own training as a historian became the foundation beneath the narrative itself. The result is a living synthesis of myth and history, an unfolding saga in which legend walks alongside evidence, and prophecy collides with human choice. If you are ready to step into that world, begin where destiny itself begins, with the births of Paris and Achilles in Song of Princes, Book One of The Homeric Chronicles. Available in Kindle and paperback on Amazon. Copyright © 2016, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. 
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Every story has its kings and warriors, but the women behind them often wield power just as sharp as any blade. Sometimes sharper. While watching Sons of Anarchy, I found myself thinking about one woman in particular from Greek myth: Clytemnestra. At first glance, the worlds could not be more different. One ruled a Bronze Age palace built of stone and bronze. The other moved through the shadows of modern California, commanding respect inside an outlaw motorcycle club. Yet the longer you watch Gemma Teller, the harder it becomes to ignore the resemblance. Both women are mothers first. Not gentle, passive mothers tucked quietly behind the scenes, but women who understand that survival sometimes demands decisive action. They are protectors of their bloodline, guardians of legacy, and architects of vengeance when they believe their families are threatened. Clytemnestra is often remembered for one act above all others: the killing of her husband, Agamemnon. To later audiences, it reads as shocking betrayal. But within the logic of myth, her actions are rooted in grief and rage. Agamemnon sacrificed their daughter, Iphigenia, in exchange for favorable winds to sail to Troy. A king secured glory. A mother buried a child. Years passed, but grief does not fade simply because time moves forward. When Agamemnon finally returned from war, Clytemnestra did not hesitate. She exacted revenge with deliberate precision. Her violence was not wild or reckless. It was planned, measured, and rooted in the belief that justice demanded action. Gemma Teller operates from a similar place of conviction. When she believed that Tara posed a threat to her son Jax and the future of the club, she acted with terrifying certainty. Like Clytemnestra, Gemma did not view herself as a villain. She believed she was protecting her family, preserving order, and defending what mattered most. Her choices were brutal, but in her mind, they were necessary. That is what makes both women so unsettling. They do not act from madness. They act from purpose. Both understand that power does not always sit on a throne. Sometimes it moves quietly behind the scenes, shaping events long before the world notices what has happened. Both women wield violence not as an emotional outburst, but as a calculated tool. They believe that hesitation invites weakness, and weakness invites ruin. Yet there is always a cost. Clytemnestra’s vengeance secured justice in her eyes, but it also set into motion the downfall of her household. Her son, Orestes, would one day return to avenge his father. Blood called for blood. Revenge created more revenge. Gemma’s story follows a similarly tragic path. Her decision to eliminate Tara did not preserve her family. It fractured it. Her attempt to protect Jax ultimately contributed to his unraveling. That is the quiet truth both stories reveal. Women like Clytemnestra and Gemma Teller are not powerless figures reacting to events beyond their control. They are decision-makers. Strategists. Women who step forward when others hesitate. They wield authority not through title, but through will. And perhaps that is why they endure as unforgettable figures in their respective worlds. Not because they were gentle. Not because they were forgiving. But because they were willing to do what others feared. Queens of vengeance do not wait for justice. They create it. — Janell Rhiannon © 2015, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. There are moments when I sit with The Iliad open in front of me, pencil in hand, annotating line after line, when a single thought rises above everything else: How in the world did Homer remember all of this? Not just the battles. Not just the heroes. But the catalogues of ships, the genealogies, the speeches that roll on for dozens of lines without faltering. I find myself flipping back through pages, checking names, tracing relationships, marking themes, and wondering how one poet managed to carry an entire war inside his memory. Meanwhile, I sometimes forget why I walked into the kitchen. The deeper I go into annotation, the more astonishing the achievement becomes. Every time a warrior is introduced, he is not just named but placed—son of this father, from that city, tied to this lineage. These details matter because identity mattered in the Bronze Age world. A man was not simply himself. He was his ancestors, his homeland, his reputation. Homer preserves those connections with remarkable consistency, as if he is walking through a living memory rather than composing from imagination. Of course, scholars remind us that Homer likely did not memorize the poems in the way we memorize modern texts. He worked within an oral tradition, one built on rhythm, repetition, and formulaic phrases that made storytelling easier to carry across generations. Epithets like “swift-footed Achilles” or “rosy-fingered Dawn” were not just poetic flourishes. They were anchors, memory tools that allowed the bard to weave long narratives without losing his place. Even so, the scale of the achievement still feels staggering. Sometimes I imagine Homer standing before an audience, voice rising above the crackle of firelight, the rhythm of his words carrying the story forward while listeners leaned in to hear what happened next. No pause button. No notes. No search bar. Just memory, voice, and the weight of tradition behind him. And here I am, surrounded by books, notes, bookmarks, and digital tools, still amazed at the sheer endurance it must have taken to hold such a vast story in the mind. The longer I work through these lines, the more respect I feel not just for the poetry itself, but for the discipline behind it. It makes modern writing struggles feel a little less heroic by comparison. And yet, perhaps that is the quiet lesson hidden beneath the poetry. Great stories are not only inspired. They are practiced, refined, and carried forward by persistence. Even if we occasionally lose our place in the middle of a paragraph. — Janell Rhiannon © 2015, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. |
Janell Rhiannon
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