Page 60

“Ehy!” Zosines calls from ahead of us, cutting through the moment. “Trouble up ahead.”

A Roman centuria lingers to the side of the road, likely to rest and eat a meal, the roughly hundred or so men milling about near a large oak tree.

Considering how expansive and militant Rome is, I shouldn’t be surprised to see the empire’s soldiers during our travels, but their presence here is still an unpleasant shock.

The soldiers’ eyes rove over us as we pass them. Memnon and his men aren’t wearing their armor, but their long, oiled hair and beards, their tattoos, their bows and arrows, even the shapes and detailing of their clothes and their distinctive horse gear all speak to their culture.

“Fucking barbarians,” one Roman soldier says, spitting to the side. “What are you doing this far west?”

Stay close, Memnon tells me, ignoring the Romans entirely.

“This one is pretty,” one of the men says, nodding to Memnon. His eyes drop to the gold hilt of mysoul mate’sdagger. “And he’s a fancy bastard. Tell me, what godless tribe are you cunts from?”

I’m not sure who in our group, besides me and Memnon, knows Latin, but no one responds to the question, though I feel the thrum of Memnon’s ire across our bond.

“Does it matter?” another soldier calls. “They all look the same…except forthatsweet thing,” he says, nodding as his eyes land on me. His attention snags on my tunic and my exposed leg. “She might not look Roman, but she dresses like one, and look at those sandals. She’s a bride!”

“Most immodest bride I’ve ever seen,” says one of the other soldiers.

Memnon’s horse slows, his body tensing. I can see a bit of his magic curling from beneath his palms.

It’s fine, I say down our bond.

It’s not, Memnon insists.

“Are we killing Romans today?” Zosines growls in Sarmatian. “I wouldn’t mind making jewelry of their armor—and their teeth.”

Memnon doesn’t respond. He’s taut as a bowstring, even as more eyes land on me. I feel those eyes on my bare calves, where the long skirt of my wedding tunic has hiked up, and I sense them noticing how I’m straddling my mare, rather than riding sidesaddle.

“Wonder if she rides a man as well as she rides that horse.”

Another pats his thigh. “I’ll give her a free ride.”

“Aye, fancy bastard!” one of the Romans shouts to Memnon. “How much to stick my cock in your whore?”

Faster than my eyes follow, Memnon grabs the bow slung over his shoulder and fits an arrow into it. I only have a moment to register that he’s brandishing a weapon at all before he shoots the projectile.

The arrow lodges itself into the eye socket of the Roman soldier who insulted me. A line of blood slips down the man’s cheek and he teeters for a moment, then crumples to the ground.

Around me there’s shouting and movement, and Memnon’s deep blue magic swarms the area, but my gaze is still fixed on that fallen Roman soldier.

Memnon killed him for insulting me.

I finally manage to tear my gaze away when Memnon angles his steed to the head of our group, another arrow already fitted into his bow.

“You flirt with your fucking death when you speak ill of mywife.” Memnon’s voice has deepened with his anger. Wood creaks as he pulls the bowstring taut. “Now,who’s next?”

Sattion, Zosines, Itaxes, and Rakas have all grabbed their weapons as well. The air is thick with the promise of violence.

“Hold your places!” a hard, masculine voice shouts. “Hold your godsdamned places and stay those hands.” A centurion steps forward, his pockmarked face stern. He takes in Memnon, then the rest of us.

“Lower your weapons,” the centurion commands our group.

“Our king does not take orders fromanyone,” Zosines bites out in thickly accented Latin, his bow still drawn and ready.

“King?” the centurion says, reassessing our group before his eyes settle on Memnon. “If you’re a king, where’s your army? Your retinue? Yourcrown?”

“He doesn’t answer foreigners’ questions either,” Zosines adds.