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Sapu sanburvak?he says in Sarmatian.What are you doing?

I stare down at my bread.Just eating lunch—and talking to you.

I wish I were there with you, Memnon admits. He pauses, and this time, when he speaks again, it’s in Sarmatian.Botuvap iv’tabiwvusasa logu suwas wanubpusa.He pauses, as though he’s searching for the right words.Pesa wetasavakvu wevugavusa sobivakvu kuvug sanupusa. Xu nudnutasavasa i’rugavusa sisa. Pusa vak danusa di’vak lib di’nvusa kuxivu xu vaksa ovaknud wotugavusa etvu kuvug sanupusa.?1

I try to focus on the sounds that make up his language, determined to learn. It somewhat helps that I can pick out bits of his emotions, which feel giddy and ardent, much like the way I feel once wine hits my blood.

Vaksu i’k wanapsa i’tvuwavakgu est buvisu si’tsoxap vakosguma, vak est vatnutapsa dukup mi’tavakgusdanad inavakasavak popmas,?2 he finishes.

After a pause, I ask,What did you say?

I feel his smile and more of his warm, heady emotions.

“Girl!” Livia’s sharp voice cuts through my thoughts. The cicadas go quiet.

Shit.

I have to go, Memnon, I rush out.

I stand quickly and pop the last bit of bread in my mouth.

Is that Livia?he asks.

Yes…

Will you be all right?Memnon asks, alarmed. He now knows how she is.

“Girl!”

I have to go, I rush out.I’ll chat again tonight.And I’m serious, I want to learn Sarmatian.

Botuvap ipis sinavakasa wanubpusa,?3 he says.

What did you say?I ask, rushing back to the villa.

His emotions seem conflicted, but I hear another smile in his voice when he says,I can’t wait to teach you.

1 I wish it so strongly, my heart aches from it. I envy the sun that gets to touch your skin. And the bread that gets to kiss your lips. I envy the air that shares space with you and the ground that gets to hold you.

2 And my only fear when it comes to teaching you my language is that you might learn my secrets before I’m ready to share them.

3 I pray my heart will survive it.

CHAPTER 5

ROXILANA, 16 YEARS OLD

52 AD, Rome, Roman Empire

There’ssomething mesmerizing about writing. The neat lines, the straight, sharp edges. The ability to look at rows and rows of lines arranged just so and draw from themlanguage. To hear in your mind words that someone else spoke, someone else imagined and felt. To me, it’s nearly as supernatural as having a literal voice in my head.

I watch as Livia writes instructions onto her wax tablet in the domus of the Juventia family. Longing grips me. I know what she’s writing is largely mundane and that the task itself can be slow and tedious, but unlike tailoring clothes, I don’t think I would mind the tedium, just as I never minded learning Sarmatian, though it took me nearly two years to really understand the language.

Livia, however, has chosen not to teach me how to write, and I doubt she ever will. Not when she has all the help from me she needs. Besides, educating me would raise my worth in ways that would make her decidedly uncomfortable.

“The tunic will need to have a Tyrian purple edging,” says Quinta, our client, as she appraises her bored-looking son, Gaius. “I also would like a little gold detailing.”

While Livia writes everything down, I take the young nobleman’s measurements. He’s probably only a few years my senior, yet he seems much older. Power has carved into him the way pain has carved into me.