Page 13

49 AD, Rome, Roman Empire

I sitoutside on a stone bench behind one of the villas Livia and I are visiting today, sweat gathering beneath my long tunic. The summer sun feels hot enough to cook meat, but I don’t mind. Livia’s inside the large house, gossiping with her client, while I’ve used the spare time to slip away and eat a wedge of bread and listen to the cicadas calling from the tall, dry grass.

As it so often does, my mind drifts to Memnon. I heard him only a short while ago, uttering some soft thought not meant for me.

I think about the beautiful, rolling notes of his native language and wish, not for the first time, that I understood them. I know Latin and a bit of Greek but not Sarmatian. For a long while, I was okay with that, but not anymore. I want to understand all his thoughts just as he understands all of mine.

Memnon?I reach out across our connection.Can you teach me your language?

Roxi?

That first touch of his awareness makes my breath catch. It’s quickly followed by surprise and delight, the sensations flooding through me like snowmelt in spring. It’s intoxicating—heis intoxicating.

I would love to, est menulumguva amage, he says, though I swear I also sense a spike of something else. Unease? Maybe I’m reading into things too much.

Can we start with that phrase?I say, taking a bite of my bread.

“Est menulumguva amage”?he echoes. If Memnon is busy with the demands of the day, he doesn’t let on.

What does it mean?I press.

You’ll find out soon enough, he says cryptically.

Soon enough?I scoff, even as a light, happy emotion works its way through me.What sort of answer is that?

I didn’t promise I’d be a good teacher, he says, and I sense his smile.Besides, I’m trying to leave a little mystery in our relationship.

Oh, so now we have a relationship?I say. My blood thrums at the thought.

I feel his smile.Oh yes, Roxi.

Now I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face or the hopeful rush his words bring with them.

Vaksasavazaku pesa susagub mi’tasavakvu evupusa?he asks.What do you think I look like?

I realize this is his attempt to teach me Sarmatian: to think a sentence first in his language, then repeat it in Latin. Who knows, maybe it will work.

I don’t know, I answer him.

Kezak di’napuvusagu do kusgu i’banud mi’tgasavakpa? Have you thought about it at least?

Of course I’ve thought about it, I say. My mind has wandered to this topic many, many times. Memnon’s rich, arresting voice practically begs for a face to go with it.

I close my eyes, basking in the midday sunlight, and search my mind for the image I’ve cobbled together of him.

I imagine you with short, light brown hair and…smooth, oiled skin.

His laughter echoes down the bond we share.

Why are you laughing?I demand. If he thinks smooth, oiled skin is laughable…what must he look like, then?

No reason, little witch.

Do you look like a monster?I ask, somewhat surly, taking another bite of my bread.

Memnon laughs again, this time cocky.Not a monster, Roxi.

That makes my heart skip for some odd reason. I’m never going to see Memnon in the flesh, so what he looks like is irrelevant.