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Despite the alcohol and the incense, this conversation is sobering me quickly. “If my critics are foolish, then yes, I will be,” I say.

Again, that look of speculative appreciation comes over his mother. Eventually, she dips her head. “Very well. I have spoken my bit. I will take my leave.” She dips her head and strides out of the tent. Only she pauses, right at the tent flap. Tamara glances over her shoulder, her gaze meeting mine. “Congratulations, daughter. You now wear the mark of our family. Welcome to the clan of the dragon.”

CHAPTER 23

ROXILANA, 18 YEARS OLD

54 AD, Northern Sarmatia, near the Borysthenes River

“I have a surprise for you.”Memnon walks backward in his training leathers as he speaks, leading us down one of the many paths that cut through the tented settlement.

“Oh really?” I say, trailing after him, Ferox at my side “Should I be worried?”

Sarmatian surprises, I’m learning, can go either way.

He laughs, his eyes alight with excitement.

“You should always be worried with me, little witch.”

I give Memnon a look, though I cannot help the smile that spreads across my face. Being around him is like soaking in the sun, and lately I’ve had so little of it.

Since the end of the wedding celebrations, life has returned to normal—or what must be normal for Sarmatians. For Memnon, that means dealing with kingly duties while Tamara trains me on the ins and outs of my new roles here.

“What exactly is this surprise?” I ask.

He glances over his shoulder. “You’ll see,” he says secretively. “We’re nearly there.”

Sure enough, we walk only a little farther when Memnon tugs me toward a small, innocuous tent with a blue fabric doorway.

Pulling the cloth aside, he gestures for me and Ferox to enter. Inside, the space is cozy and sumptuous, the ground covered in a large circular rug, a wooden table and cushioned bench at its center. On the table is a wax tablet, a stylus, and a small stack of scrolls.

My eyes lock onto the scrolls. Without thinking, I reach for one of them, my curiosity getting the better of me. A leather thong holds the roll of it together. When I glance at Memnon, a question in my eyes, he nods encouragingly.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Take a look at it.”

My gaze drops to the scroll once more. It feels like stealing sweets, untying the leather cord and opening the rolled papyrus. Written on it are lines and lines of Latin. I’ve seen the shapes of these letters for years, and though none of it means anything to me, understanding feels so close I can taste it.

My thumb runs over one of the letters as Ferox comes to my side, leaning against my leg. “What is the surprise?” I ask again, still beguiled by the writing.

“You cannot read,” Memnon states.

I pet Ferox absently. “You already know that.”

“But you want to,” he adds, his eyes fervent on me.

“Yes.”My voice is hushed. Reverent.

A grin breaks out across his face, tugging at his facial scar. “Then I will teach you to read and write, right here in this little tent, which has been enchanted to quiet the outside noise and warded so that only you and I can enter?—”

“Truly?” I interrupt with a whisper, lowering the scroll. I stare at him, disbelieving. “You will teach me how to read?”

Though I have received jewels and weapons, crowns and palaces since coming here, this is by far the most precious wedding gift of them all.

“I will,” he says. “Unless, of course, you still think me too terrible a teacher,” he adds.

I begin to tear up. “You’re a great teacher,” I say, unable to go along with the joke.

Memnon’s face grows serious, though his eyes still twinkle. “Then, the better question is: which language would you prefer to learn first? Latin, or Greek, or?—”