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Once we arrive, we dismount and stable the horses. Then we enter through the main arch, moving around the colonnaded walkway beneath the stadium seats, following the Praetorian Guard.

The Circus Maximus is enormous, so large it can fit thousands upon thousands of Romans. We see many of them loitering here, where the air smells vaguely like sweat and piss and sour wine. As we make our way to the imperial box, the stares become far more intense, largely because of how close our audience is to us.

“My king,” one of the Sarmatians calls out from behind us, “I think you have some admirers. Without your beard, you’re almost as pretty as your wife.”

“I can protect you from them if you’d like,” adds another of his men who walks ahead of me. I think I overheard Memnon call him Zosines.

Their reactions to Memnon’s shorn hair are a lot better now than they were when they first saw him. Then, they wore varying looks of horror.

Apparently, cutting a Sarmatian’s hair is not something they do, though I don’t really understand why.

“The only admirers I’m noticing are you two fools,” Memnon says.

“Three fools,” another Sarmatian corrects.

“Four,” the last of his men calls out.

Five, I add silently.

Memnon is behind me, so I cannot see his expression, but down our connection I hear him groan.Not you too.

“Sorry, Roxilana,” one of his men says, “seems we’re going to have to fight you for him.”

“There’s no need,” I respond in Sarmatian. I glance over my shoulder at Memnon. “I’m willing to share.”

That sends off a round of raucous laughter.

Don’t encourage them, Memnon says, but I can hear the smile in his voice, and I sense that he’s actually enjoying himself, despite the teasing.

“She really does speak Sarmatian,” one of the men says in wonder.

The conversation dies away as we finally make it out of the colonnaded walkway and into the emperor’s private section of the stands. The room we enter is roofed, and there a few senators and other high-ranking men meandering, pausing to scrutinize us as we cross the space. On the far side of it are massive marble columns, and we pass through those, into the open air.

My breath stills when I catch a glimpse of the arena far beneath me. The sandy track is a long oval shape, bisected down the middle by a series of statues and obelisks. And right now, chariots race down that track, kicking up plumes of dust as they go.

We head down a set of marble stairs to a balcony below, where a line of upholstered chairs has been arranged to view the races. Among those chairs is a throne, upon which the emperor already sits, his guards nearby and a senator at his side.

When Nero sees our group, his eyes light—until he notices Memnon’s trimmed hair. “Whatever happened to you?” he says as we approach. He sounds disappointed, like a child whose friends won’t play along with him.

“I was inspired by Roman hairstyles,” Memnon says smoothly.

“Is that right?” Nero’s gaze slides to me, and realization floods his features. Now he doesn’t seem so brutish. In fact, he appears startlingly sharp, though his eyes have a lascivious gleam to them. “Yes, well, Romanscanbe quite inspiring, especially under the right circumstances.”

I frown at him and distractedly press a hand to my sternum, a strange tightness gripping my chest.

Nero returns his attention to Memnon. “Well, I suppose you still have that barbarian look about you in other ways. Come, sit.” He pats the empty chair next to him, then turns to the senator on his other side. “You’re excused.”

“If you don’t mind,” the senator protests, looking both intrigued and alarmed as he takes Memnon in, “I’d like?—”

“Begone.”

The senator, who undoubtedly is very powerful and wealthy, reluctantly leaves his seat, his expression pinched.

Nero is oblivious, his focus already back on Memnon as my husband and I make our way to the open seats. Memnon’s men stand to the side, while a couple of servants rush in and remove the excess seats from the balcony we’re perched on.

Whatever is about to happen over the next few hours, I’m sorry for it, Memnon says.

One look at the overeager emperor has me biting the inside of my cheek.Not as sorry as I am for you. Looks like you have a sixth admirer.