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He kisses me then, and for good or ill, the matter is settled.

We’re acquiring a palace.

CHAPTER 32

ROXILANA, 22 YEARS OLD

58 AD, Panticapaeum, Tauris

The dangling goldbeads of my diadem rustle against my hair and my carnelian jewelry hangs heavy on me as Memnon and I ride at the head of his horde, weaving through the streets of Panticapaeum.

Bosporans stand outside their homes and businesses, watching us as we go. Sarmatians are invaders—terrifying, imposing, and largely unwanted—but the people standing in the streets bow and cheer as we pass.

Whatever they imagine we’re doing here, they do not consider us an oppressive force at least. It makes me wonder what they think of the client king who currently rules them.

Past the gates, I can see the large, colonnaded structure, the marble palace perched on the edge of a rise. Beyond it stretches the Black Sea, vast and glittering. It’s hard not to stare at that mesmerizing water and the ships that dot it.

Bosporan soldiers stand guard before the gates, their expressions growing alarmed as we approach them.

Memnon’s magic flows out of him, the indigo tendrils of it coiling around the guardsmen, then slippingintothem. Their eyes glaze over, and stiffly, they open the gates, standing aside so we can cross onto palace grounds unimpeded.

We head up the stone pathway, only stopping once we reach a colonnaded entrance hall. Again, Memnon’s magic sweeps over the guards posted, keeping the soldiers docile and oblivious while our small band of Sarmatians dismounts from our horses.

Ferox comes over to me then, slinking between steeds and people. I lay a grateful hand on his head, his presence settling my racing pulse.

I want to turn back now. I want to cajole and plead with Memnon that this is a doomed idea. My fear is a metallic tang at the back of my throat. Rome will always be the monster looming large in my nightmares. I caught its attention once, long ago; I don’t want to catch it again.

But that fear has become a monster of its own, and as Memnon glances at me, dressed in his glimmering armor and golden circlet, confidence in every line of his posture, I’m sure I’m letting that fear get the better of me.

He takes my hand as Tamara, Katiari, and a group of our warriors clusters around us, and together with Ferox, we enter the palace, the rest of our procession remaining behind.

Our footsteps echo in the spacious entrance hall. More Bosporans move toward us, some guards and some aides and servants. Just as swiftly as they approach, Memnon sends them away with his magic.

In front of us, a set of thick cedar doors is propped open. Beyond them looms the shadowy throne room, the only light inside from burning braziers.

When we cross into it, I’m aware of the great many people who fill the space, but nerves and growing dread allow me to only consider the man sitting at the end of the aisle.

Dressed in a toga, King Cotys wears a simple ribbon in his close-cropped gray hair to signify his status. Supposedly, the man is a descendant of the almost-mythical Marc Antony, which to me only means that Rome isreallynot going to like what we’re about to do.

Cotys was leaning over to speak with an aide, but when he notices our group, he straightens in his seat and assesses my husband with shrewd eyes.

“Memnon the Indomitable, Great King of Sarmatians,” the Bosporan ruler says, gripping the armrests of his marble throne, “you do me an honor coming here.” His gaze moves from Memnon to me and Ferox, then the retinue behind us. “I was not expecting you.”

“King Cotys,” Memnon says, inclining his head.

“What brings you here?” He asks the question jovially enough, but I hear the threads of unease in his voice.

Memnon lets the silence draw out. Finally, he speaks. “I think you know why.”

King Cotys raises his brows. “Have we not paid you enough? Is that what this is about?”

“I am not some thief who must be paid off,” Memnon says. “Nor am I some Roman playing at ruling.”

Cotys noticeably bristles at that.

“I am a king born from a long line of kings and queens,” Memnon continues. “My ancestors have fought and bled and died for this land, and my children and their children will fight and die and rule these lands as well, forIam the rightful king. And it is time I claimed my throne once and for all.”

To punctuate his thought, the great cedar doors behind us swing inward, closing with a great bang.