Forgive Me, Steven, For I Have Sinned . . .
“Man, you have got to read this book!” The words came in a breathless rush, from a friend whose opinion I trusted. “It’s better than Gates of Fire!” he said, thrusting a rather thick volume into my hands.
Now, most everyone who knows me understands that I have two literary idols, one dead and one living: Robert E. Howard and Steven Pressfield. They are the prophets of my personal pantheon; their words, their stories, have no equal. Thus, for him to come up to me and say he’d found a book better than Pressfield’s Gates of Fire was pure heresy, like taking a tinkle on the Bible. “Impossible!” I replied, holding the book away from my body as though its touch was enough to cause spiritual pollution.
“Read it! You’ll see!”
Color me skeptical . . . and more than a little eager to prove my friend wrong. I accepted his challenge and dug into it that very afternoon, expecting I’d call him up in an hour or so and curse him for taking Pressfield’s name in vain. But I couldn’t. That book had sucked me in.









