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He collapses against me, his chest sweaty and heaving as his hand falls away from my neck. Outside, I hear someone whistle lasciviously, but I don’t care. I don’t care because what in the gods’ name was that?

We’ve had sex, we’ve made love, but until now, we’ve never done anything so…feral.

Memnon moves a lock of hair out of my eyes.But did you like it?he asks.

I…did, I say, surprising myself. I give him a look.But you must know that.Surely he felt all my reactions to his words and touches. To his magic.

He grins, then presses a kiss to my shoulder. “I did too.”

“Then it’s settled: every time you cheat death, I’ll ply you with perverse sexual acts.”

“Better be careful offering such things, little witch,” he admonishes. “Your definition and my definition ofperverseare two different things.”

My feet touch the ground, and still naked, I step in close. “Then you better not die, so you can teach me the difference.”

Because, as it turns out, Memnon’s not a half-bad teacher after all.

CHAPTER 27

ROXILANA, 18 YEARS OLD

54 AD, Somewhere within Sarmatia

The Sarmatian kingdomis a vast expanse of land stretching from the Danubius River in the west to the Tanais River in the east, and from the Borysthenes River in the north all the way down to the Black Sea.

Or so I’m told. The names geographically mean very little to me; all of this land is too far east for my Roman frame of reference.

But I think that it’s going to mean something more to me soon because the settlement is moving.

Tents are broken down and folded or rolled up. Chests are loaded onto many, many ox-drawn carts, and wooden wagons now become families’ homes while we travel from one grazing area to another.

Within a few short days, the expansive city is packed up and carried off, our caravan stretching as far as the eye can see in both directions.

It is as we move across the endless expanse of grasslands that I learn the complicated truth about being a Sarmatian.According to Rome, these are Roman lands. It’s obvious enough—every so often, we pass some Roman marker declaring such—but it is just as clear by the reverence we’re given in the towns we pass through that Memnon is considered king here.

We travel south and west, following ancient roads Memnon tells me about. Only this time when we travel, I am ill-suited to it.

I hunch over on the outskirts of camp, retching up my breakfast into the grass, just as I did yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

I draw in a deep breath, grimacing as hunger gnaws at me, so sharp it seems to cramp my belly.

Roxi?

Memnon’s voice is full of concern, but I’m grateful that his kingly duties have drawn him away from my side. He’s been increasingly worried about my travel sickness, and I don’t have the energy to both manage my symptoms and soothe away his concern.

I straighten my tunic and, after placing a spell on myself to ease my nausea, return to my wagon. An apology is on the tip of my tongue for Katiari, who has taken to sharing breakfast with me. She’s seen my recurring nausea several times, yet somehow it never gets less embarrassing.

Only this morning, as I step into my creaking wagon, it’s not just Katiari who waits for me. Memnon’s mother is there as well in all her finery, her brow wrinkled.

“Morning, Tamara,” I say, startled.

“Valiant daughter,” she begins.

Oh no. No casual conversation ever begins this way with her.

I glance at Katiari, who mouthssorryto me.

“You asked her to come here?” I say accusingly.