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For a long, tense moment, Memnon does nothing, and I can almost hear him weighing his options. Finally, he whistles, and one of his men moves up to his side.

“It seems our plans have changed,” he says in Sarmatian. “Be ready for anything. These men are treacherous.”

Memnon’s gaze returns to the Roman guard once more, and in Latin he says, “Lead on.”

CHAPTER 11

ROXILANA, 18 YEARS OLD

54 AD, Rome, Roman Empire

We’re takento the Domus Transitoria, Emperor Nero’s palace, our group hemmed in by the many guards around us. I try not to gape as we enter the massive structure, but even among the opulence of Rome, this is unprecedented—marble floors, lavish frescos, gilded columns, statues of gods and rulers so masterfully crafted they could be the real people.

Our footfalls echo through the space as the Praetorian Guard take us deeper into the structure. Finally, we stop before a portiere, the curtains a rich Tyrian purple, and the prefect turns to us.

“Your men can come no farther,” he tells Memnon.

Memnon nods. Without glancing at his men, he says in Sarmatian, “Wait here for me. Accept no offerings from these men; they are known for their deceit. Should any Roman move against you, strike them down. I will handle the rest.”

I manage to keep my expression carefully blank, but inside I quake at his words.

Memnon’s men move away from our backs. Only then does the prefect sweep aside the curtained doorway to let us through.

The receiving hall we step into is just as richly adorned as the rest of the palace, the floors marble, the walls painted with various myths of Rome. Low couches and side tables are scattered throughout the room for men to recline in and chat. Even with the gilded throne situated at the back, it hardly seems like an appropriate room to face off with an intruder such as Memnon.

The space is currently empty, save for the emperor’s guardsmen that file in behind us, the prefect among them. I eye the men warily.

You are safe,my amage, Memnon insists again, his hand going to the small of my back and lingering there, his touch like a brand.

I glance up at him, and as soon as my eyes take in his profile, I cannot seem to look away, ensnared by his violent beauty.

Will you tell me now what that endearment means?I manage to ask.

Memnon glances down at me, the corner of his mouth curved up, like he might know I’m fawning over him.Is it not obvious?he asks.It meansqueen.

My eyes widen. I always assumed the term meant something likedearestorbeloved. Some sweet sentiment that didn’t have a proper Latin translation. Instead, he’s been giving me a title I knew nothing of. And gods, he’s been doing so foryears.

I’m so caught up in the revelation, I don’t notice the older woman who strides through the far doorway, flanked by more guards. Not until she speaks.

“You’ll need to disarm yourself before you speak with my son,” she commands, her face pinched in displeasure. She’s dressed in all the opulence of a ruler herself, adorned in reds and golds and dripping in jewelry.

So that must be Nero’s mother, Agrippina. I’ve heard whispers about her—that her son might rule the empire, butsheruleshim.

Memnon looks vaguely amused at the order, but nonetheless, he removes his bow and the arrows strapped to his side, the weapons clattering as he drops them to the ground. Next, he removes his sword, then a dagger from his waist, tossing the blades away from him, the sound echoing loudly in the room.

He holds his now-empty arms out at his sides.

“Step away from your weapons, King,” Agrippina demands.

Memnon steps forward, arms still stretched out at his sides. Without thinking, I move along with him, the action earning me a snicker from one of the many guards stationed along the edges of the room.

“Am I harmless enough now?” Memnon asks.

“There is no such thing as a harmless Sarmatian,” Agrippina says. But she still nods to the prefect. He breaks away from the rest of the guards and heads to the back curtained doorway. When he returns, the emperor is with him.

“Emperor Nero Caesar Augustus,” the prefect announces, “Head of Priests, Holder of the Tribunician Power, and Father of the Fatherland.”

Nero is…not as I imagined him. Not as big, not as heroic, not as noble—but then, perhaps I pictured the emperor to be the personification of Roman might, larger and grander than the rest of us mortals. But not even Nero’s golden armor nor his rich purple toga and the cape he wears can offset his soft, boyish frame or the baby fat that still clings to his face.