The Rant
This week I went off on a bit of a rant — and I’m not sorry about it.
Between the headlines, the state of modern warfare, and the technological hellscape we seem to be building for ourselves, I got to thinking about how ancient we really are under all the gadgets. We all have that lizard brain, that low brain, the beast in the soul. And throughout all of human history, we’ve killed each other over the same things: territory, water, minerals, resources. The causes for war haven’t changed much. What has changed is how efficiently and how far away we can do the killing.
I talked about the evolution of weapons — from the atlatl (basically a big lawn dart launcher from the Neolithic era) to modern drones that can follow you through a trench or wait outside your window, piloted by a 22-year-old kid with an Xbox controller. That’s not an exaggeration, by the way. Xbox controllers were literally used as drone controllers when I was in the military. We’ve got rail guns, AI, hypersonic vehicles, bunker busters, and that terrifying munition that deploys a ring of blades like a blender instead of exploding. Somewhere in a meeting room, somebody pitched that idea, and apparently nobody said, “Whoa, Jim. Calm down.”
I also mentioned a book called On Killing by Dave Grossman — a military officer and psychologist who interviewed war veterans about the realities of combat. One of his big findings was that there’s a deep reluctance in human beings to kill. We’ve been engineering that reluctance out of warfare with every new weapon we invent, putting more and more distance between the killer and the killed.
And who’s in charge of all this? Celebrities. Clip-chasers. People who treat governance like a content strategy. We built that world, we promoted those people, and now we’re watching it burn.
Sanguine and BOHICA
I told the story about how I used to encourage my welding students to get comfortable with the word sanguine — that feeling of things being terrible and laughing about it anyway. In the Army, we had our own version: BOHICA. Bend Over, Here It Comes Again. Because sometimes laughter is the only way through.
My son and I had a conversation about this on the way home from school. He’s in eighth grade, taking civics, and he made this observation about how there’s always some scandal in the government. I told him that the idea of the noble statesman — the figure who serves out of duty, not ambition — that idea feels like it belongs to another era. And that got me thinking about ancient Rome. Because of course it did.
Single Combat: The Horatii and the Curiatii
I told the story of Rome versus Alba Longa, probably sometime in the 500s BC, back when Rome was still a monarchy. Rather than wage a full-scale war over border raids and cattle theft, both sides agreed to settle it with champions — three brothers from each side.
Rome sent the Horatii. Alba Longa sent the Curiatii.
It went badly for Rome at first. Two of the Horatii brothers were killed almost immediately. But the surviving Horatius was uninjured, while all three Curiatii were wounded. So he ran — not out of cowardice, but strategy. The wounded brothers chased him at different speeds, stringing themselves out in a line. Horatius turned, fought them one at a time, and killed all three.
But the story doesn’t end there. On his way home, Horatius was carrying the cloak of one of the fallen Curiatii — and his own sister recognized it. She’d been engaged to one of the men he’d just killed. She began to mourn, and Horatius, enraged that she’d sympathize with the enemy, drew his sword and killed her on the spot.
The Roman people were horrified. He was put on trial. His father defended him, arguing that Rome was greater than even family. And in the end? The people acquitted him.
That story has three layers, and each one tells you something about the Roman character: the cleverness on the battlefield, the ruthless devotion to Rome above all else, and the people’s willingness to forgive in the name of the state. There’s an element I find admirable — the willingness to step onto the battlefield personally — and an element that’s deeply troubling by modern standards.
Marcus Valerius Corvus
My favorite Roman single combat story. Around the 350s or 360s BC, a young tribune named Marcus Valerius was serving in the legions when Rome’s army squared off against a Gallic force. The Gauls had a tradition of sending their best warriors out to challenge the enemy before battle — part morale booster, part religious ritual.
A huge Gaul stepped forward and demanded Rome’s strongest fighter. Marcus Valerius — young, regular-sized, nothing special physically — asked the consul (or dictator, I can’t remember which) for permission to answer the challenge. Permission was granted.
As Valerius walked out onto the field, a crow descended from the sky and landed on his helmet. To the Romans, who were deeply superstitious about omens, this was enormous. And then the crow attacked the Gaul — diving at his face, distracting him — while Valerius closed the distance and worked inside the bigger man’s guard with his shorter sword. He killed the Gaul, and Rome won the battle.
For his bravery, Marcus Valerius was given the name Corvus — the Crow. He went on to be consul six times and served as dictator. He’s one of those figures from the early Republic who embodies what Rome wanted to believe about itself: that personal courage, divine favor, and service to the state could make a man immortal.
I choose to believe our mythologies are built on kernels of truth. There’s real history in there, moral storytelling, and a bit of myth-making just for fun. What could you learn about the American character from Luke Skywalker? Probably more than you’d admit.
The Point
Here’s where it all comes together. In the ancient world, when the stakes were smaller and the leaders were closer to the people, you could have figures like Corvus or Cincinnatus — the dictator who gave up power and went back to his farm. But once the elites become so removed from the populace, once the wealth and power pile up to the point where no one would willingly surrender it, that’s when things deteriorate.
Our world is so interconnected now that a war on the other side of the planet raises your grocery prices. One country gets attacked and drones fly in every direction. We’ve got dystopian weapons and celebrity leaders, and I think — just hear me out — maybe we ought to go back to the days of single combat. Pick your champions, let them fight it out, draw the border based on who wins. It might sound like something a 14-year-old boy dreamed up, but it would save a lot of schools from getting bombed.
We need more Marcus Valerius Corvus energy. Less clip-chasing. Less fame-seeking. More stepping onto the field yourself.
Writing Updates
One reason I went deep on single combat this week: I’ve been rewriting a major plotline in The Seven Signs that involves a single combat tradition. It got me rereading the stories of Horatii and Corvus, and the rant just kind of flowed from there.
Heart of the Wasteland — Rewrites continue. I said last week I’d probably be done this week, but the truth is these revisions are more extensive than planned. I’m letting this book be as big as it needs to be. It’s the final book in the series, and I want to give you everything you deserve. I finished two major plotlines this week and I’d estimate I’m about 65–70% done, though I may be underestimating since I tackled the hardest sections first. Next week’s plotlines won’t need as much structural work. I’m also restructuring the book — shorter chapters this time, rather than the ungodly long ones the series is known for. Projected publication: end of March.
Through Burning Skies / Wyrm Rider — Coming soon after.
Dragon Riders of Zerath (trilogy) — I plan to start drafting Storm Rider (Book 1) once Seven Signs revisions wrap up, and I’ll write the whole trilogy straight through. Target launch: mid to late July.
Free Book Promo
I’m currently running a March Madness free book promotion through BookFunnel. Straight-up sci-fi and fantasy titles — no romance in this one. Grab a free read for your device:
Thanks for listening. Remember the name Marcus Valerius Corvus. If I can put that meme out into the world, I’ll be happy.
Much love, and I’ll talk to you next week.