A fictionalized memoir of Spurius Postumius Albinus, a high-ranking Roman politician who faces a threat from the cult of Bacchus.

In the second century B.C.E., Spurius holds the consulship, Rome’s highest political office. The real historical figure is largely remembered for his part in opposing Hannibal’s threat to Rome—particularly during the final eastern campaign that led to Hannibal’s death. In these pages, he’s also unearthed a massive conspiracy against Rome by devotees of the cult of Bacchus, the god of wine. It’s a strange affair that’s grippingly dramatized in this imagining, narrated by Spurius himself. Aebutius, the nephew of a friend of Spurius’ mother, Sulpicia, complains to the consul that his family was victimized by Bacchanalians; the cult tried to forcibly induct him as a means to divest him of his property. At first, Spurius is bewildered; he’s always known the cult to be essentially harmless, a “diversion for lonely women in trying times.” However, further investigation uncovers something far more sinister—the Bacchanalians stage frenzied orgies and then blackmail participants into surrendering their possessions, and they then use their victims to find more unwitting recruits. Spurius finally comes to believe the cultists number in the thousands and pose an existential threat to Rome. He ominously declares: “Never in our nation’s history has there been an evil affecting so many people, so many families. And I warn you that they have not yet perpetrated all the crimes for which they have combined. The evil increases daily.”

Over the course of this novel, Conhaim presents scrupulously rigorous research, a keenly imaginative rendering of what might exist in a gap in available scholarship, and powerfully dramatic writing. Spurius is an able narrator whose political judgements are remarkably sensitive and whose devotion to a Rome spiraling into decay is heartbreaking. In fact, the cult of Bacchus only functions as a “horrible menace to the state” because of its decadence, and Spurius seems to represent the last generation of citizens still committed to old Roman ideals. His combination of wistful nostalgia and fortitude is the heart of this engaging drama. Rome itself is subtly presented as a place that’s vulnerable to cynical cultists because its own moral compass has been compromised—a conclusion that Spurius initially resists: “In my time, Marcus Cato was first to recognize that self-control was slipping in Rome, and chastity was losing its appeal. When he initially bewailed the cult’s sharp rise in popularity, I dismissed his fears that this unseemly movement, much out of keeping with Roman modesty, could become a threat to the established order.” For all his historical meticulousness, the author never forgets that this is a novel, and he avoids burying the reader in minute detail. Still, he paints an illustrative tableau of Rome’s precariousness and the threats posed by Hannibal in the east. Overall, this is an engrossing novel that’s sure to delight enthusiastic students of the Roman Empire and other readers who may be looking for a beguiling story.

A fine amalgam of historical scholarship and literary invention.

Clashes between United States soldiers and Native tribes shape the history of Texas.

A well-written Western takes a multilayered look at the past.

A resolute woman teams up with a retired soldier in this Western set in post–Civil War Texas.

In this first volume of a historical fiction trilogy, Conhaim tells the stories of Laura Little, a White woman determined to return to the Comanche family she lived with for years, and Scott Renald, the retired soldier intent on bringing her back to her White relatives. In the book’s opening pages, Laura escapes from the mental institution where her prominent White family confined her after bringing her back to Fort Worth. Scott, in the course of pursuing the survivors of a stagecoach attack, meets Laura while she is being held by the Tonkawa. Although she is not the captive he was commissioned to find, Laura decides he is her best chance for returning to her own tribe and joins him. They make their way through the Texas desert, and when Scott learns that Laura has ties to the wife and sister he lost many years earlier, he agrees to return to the Comanche settlement with her to pursue his own goals. Factions of soldiers, Comanche, Tonkawa, and White civilians deal with one another as players in the United States’ efforts to establish its control over the West. The author is a cinematic writer, and his descriptions of shootouts (Laura “inched the rifle barrel into daylight, a movement detectable to anybody on the lookout”) and settings (“Peering eastward across the divide to where the stream jackknifed, [Scott] caught sight of its telltale marker—a two-pronged natural rock formation, eighty feet high, that to thirsty conquistadors had once resembled a pair of sherry casks”) are captivating. The novel’s major limitation is its adherence to stereotypical language: Although Conhaim displays substantial knowledge of the tribes he writes about and creates Native American characters who are as fully developed as his White players, the book’s narration, which is largely from the point of view of Scott and other White men, is full of references to “braves” and “squaws.” Many readers may find these descriptions off-putting.

An engrossing and well-written tale of the Old West.

A black man settles an old score in a small Wyoming town in the early 1900s.

In this historical novel, Conhaim (Comanche Captive, 2017) draws on various elements of the classic Western—gunfights, a malicious landowner, a stranger coming to town, and a warmhearted barmaid with a tough exterior—to tell a story inspired by his longtime fascination with the singer and activist Paul Robeson. African American traveler Benjamin Neill is closemouthed about his intentions when he rides into a Wyoming town in 1904, but he quickly settles down at Sally Murphy’s Sun and Sagebrush Inn. There, he strikes up a friendship and shares his traveling library with David Cohen, a youngJewish orphan who works at the inn. James Neill, the town marshal, is away in Cheyenne, where he learns about Benjamin, who’s skilled at speaking to working-class groups of all races. Later revelations reveal Benjamin’s desire for revenge, but before a climactic gunfight, he sings deep-pitched spirituals with Sally, offers advice to David, and performs an oration to a crowd that turns up to hear him speak: “To many Negroes he’s known simply as the prophet Benjamin,” one character explains. Conhaim does a good job of balancing genre tropes with a unique storytelling style. Benjamin is a compelling, multilayered protagonist who moves beyond his Robeson inspiration. Although the book grapples with race primarily from white characters’ perspectives, Benjamin’s voice also comes through clearly (“until our people can stand in full human dignity as Americans we should not bear America’s arms”). The prose is vivid and often dramatic, which makes for a memorable read: “David crashed onto the face of the automatic piano with a tremendous crescendo in low C, triggering the thing to start playing a familiar show tune as it rolled backward and struck the wall.”

A well-developed and thoughtful novel of right and wrong in the Old West.