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Despite my weak protests, I’m summarily disrobed and ushered into a small tub. Then, hands belonging to those unfamiliar faces scrub my hair and body and buff my nails. So many eyes see my nude form that my alarm must draw in my panther because Ferox stays close to me, never much more than an arm’s reach from my side. It initially adds to the tension in the room, but once the women realize Ferox won’t harm them, they mostly ignore the big cat.

Most Sarmatian women seem to wear their hair in braids, but once I’m pulled from the tub, the women insist on letting my long locks cascade freely down my back, save for a few thin,delicate braids at my temples that they weave together at the back of my head.

I’m helped into what must be a traditional Sarmatian wedding garment. First, I pull on the pale, embroidered breeches, then a matching tunic, the fabric detailed with swirling, golden designs. Lastly, the women slide my arms into a long, crimson kurta with a high collar and draping sleeves. Edged in gold, the deep-red garment falls nearly to my ankles and fastens together just beneath my breasts. Dozens of hammered gold plaques in the shapes of deer have been stitched onto the kurta.

I glance down at my outfit, smoothing a hand along my stomach. It’s drastically different than the Roman wedding tunic I wore for months. In fact, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever worn. Strange and opulent, heavy and fitted, and every time I move, those gold pieces seem to shiver. In the heat of summer, I can already tell it will be sweltering, but none of that seems to matter becauseI am getting married. And well, okay, this isn’t the first time, but in Rome, it was a hasty set of signatures. Brief. Transactional. Today, however, it will be a celebrated event. This feels like a true beginning.

Katiari comes to me and takes my hands, giving them a soft squeeze. “Each of us sewed a part of this outfit, putting our love and hope into your marriage,” she says as the tent quiets around us. Tamara and the rest of the women gather around the two of us as she finishes, “We wish you a prosperous marriage and welcome you into our family.”

My throat tightens with emotion. “Thank you…sister.”

The word is rusty and unsure on my tongue, but Katiari smiles and gives my hands another squeeze, nodding, and the two of us share a moment. Hopefully the first of many. I lost a sister long ago, but now I’m blessed with another.

Tamara steps in and places a hand on my shoulder, and I realize then that the three of us are a familial unit.

“You may have woken up a Roman woman,” my mother-in-law says, “but tonight, you will go to bed a Sarmatian one.”

“If she goes to bed at all,” Mada throws in. Some of the women titter at that.

Someone calls from outside the tent, “Is the bride ready?”

Tamara looks at me, her eyebrows raised in question.

I nod. “I am.”

CHAPTER 20

ROXILANA, 18 YEARS OLD

54 AD, Northern Sarmatia, near the Borysthenes River

No one has toldme how, exactly, the ceremony is to unfold, and up until now, I haven’t thought to ask. But as the women lead me through camp and onlookers gather to toss flowers along the pathway, I wonder if perhaps I should have.

Magic sifts from my palms, the pale orange plumes of it wrapping around my wrists and twisting around Ferox, who prowls at my side.

To my left, Tamara holds my arm lightly as she guides me. “I can feel you shaking,” she says. “There is no need for nerves. This is how many Sarmatian brides come to us—alone.”

I take a steadying breath and nod as we walk through the camp, a few of the women who helped dress me following in my wake; the rest of them, including Katiari and Mada, slipped away before us.

I see them again soon enough, for at the edge of camp, they wait in a semicircle. Between them stands a horse with a gilded bridle and a tooled leather saddle, one Katiari holds the reins to.

My steps slow as I take in the horse, then our location. “Are we traveling somewhere?” I ask uncertainly.

“You are,” Tamara corrects, leading me over to the animal.

My pulse quickens. “Why?”

Haven’t I traveled far enough to get here?

Tamara sees my face and rubs a small circle on my back. Leaning in closely, she says, “This is part of the wedding festivities.”

Before I can ask her what she means, I hear the distant sound of howls—human ones. It raises the hairs on my arms, and my eyes grow wide.

Unlike me, however, the other women giggle and titter.

“Hurry,” Katiari says, “hide her.”

Tamara quickly turns me and steers me back down the path, while some of the other women look to the gathering crowd and shoo them away.