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Nero smiles a little, looking pleased with himself, and Agrippina murmurs something agreeable.

“However,” Memnon continues, “my men are eager to get back to our lands, and I…” Memnon’s eyes drink me in, but heseems at a loss as to what to say. I can feel the heat of his emotions but nothing more.

“Nonsense,” Nero interrupts. “You’ve traveled all this way. You barbarians shall have a taste of Rome before you leave it, so you might know for certain that it is the best city in the entire world.”

Memnon looks like he might protest, and his magic is beginning to spill out of him once more. But after a pause, the Sarmatian gives Nero a terse nod.

“Excellent!” Nero says. “My guards will lead you and your men to some rooms. Take a bath. Enjoy your wife. We will speak again this afternoon.”

CHAPTER 12

ROXILANA, 18 YEARS OLD

54 AD, Rome, Roman Empire

Enjoy your wife.

My mind keeps snagging on Nero’s parting words.

I’ve been so caught up in avoiding marriage to Quadratus that I hadn’t really processed what being married toMemnonmight mean or what that future would actually look like.

But I’m processing it now, as a palace servant escorts us and the rest of Memnon’s men to the rooms we’re to stay in here at Nero’s palace. Gods, am I processing it.

The jubilance I should be feeling is marred by the reality of the last several hours. Memnon’s violence, his foreboding magic, and the secrets he kept from me—secrets like the fact he is a literalking—all of it makes me feel like perhaps I was very, very naive to agree to any of this.

Perhaps I made a grave mistake.

The male servant shows us first the rooms where Memnon’s men will be staying, then he takes the group of us to…ours.

The servant stops in front of a wooden door and opens it. Deep within, I catch sight of rich red walls illuminated by flickering light.

“Your rooms, good king,” the servant says.

Memnon inclines his head in thanks, and the servant dips his head and parts, leaving the group of us alone.

I eye the bedroom. I’m afraid to go in.

I don’t know if he hears my thoughts or not, but Memnon places a gentle hand on my back. “Go ahead,” he urges softly. “I need to speak with my men for a moment.”

Haltingly, I enter the room, the tread of my sandals loud within the crimson walls of the chamber. Detailed frescos adorn them, most depictions of various myths, none of which end well for the woman.

I glance back to the doorway of our room, where Memnon speaks softly to one of his men, our marriage document tucked under one of his arms. I take a moment to stare at that broad back and the black hair that cascades down it, and I try to see the familiarity in it.

There is none. For as intimately as I’ve known Memnon’s mind, physically, he’s still a stranger to me.

Memnon clasps the warrior he speaks with on the shoulder, and with that, his men depart, the sounds of their footfalls and rustling armor growing fainter and fainter, until Memnon and I are painfully alone.

The Sarmatian king turns to me then, and I cannot help the bolt of terror that courses through my veins. Partly it’s his physical presence, but I think it’s more the memory of the way Memnon controlled an entire room against their will and the way none of them seemed to remember it afterward.

If Memnon could do that to anemperor, what might he do to me?

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says hoarsely in Sarmatian as he enters the room, placing the marriage document on a side table.

“Like what?” I respond in his mother tongue.

“Like you are afraid,” he says, crossing over to me, the weapons that were returned to him now shifting with his movements.

I open my mouth to deny it, but the words don’t come. “Iamafraid,” I finally whisper, edging away from him.