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I don’t let him finish.

I fling myself into his arms, holding him close. “All of them,” I whisper.

Memnon’s arms come around me, his grip tightening as he breathes against my ear. “Then you will learn all of them, my queen.”

“When can we start?” I ask.

Slowly, Memnon releases me, regret etched on his face. “Not today, unfortunately. In fact, we probably should get going. We have official matters to attend to.”

“Wedo?” Up until now, it was Memnon and Memnon alone who had the official matters.

He gives me a smile that is only a little pinched at the corners. “Now, my queen, we’re going to preside over our people.”

CHAPTER 24

ROXILANA, 18 YEARS OLD

54 AD, Northern Sarmatia, near the Borysthenes River

I’m terrified.Terrified out of my wits.

I sit on my claw-footed throne, Ferox at my feet and Memnon at my side, trying not to tremble like a leaf.

I squeeze the armrests tightly as I stare out at the crowd gathered in the great tent. None of Tamara’s preparation has diminished my nerves. I regret wearing the stola I donned earlier. At the time, I didn’t know I would be presiding over these people; I simply wanted to wear a garment that felt familiar. Now, however, seated in this chair and staring out at a sea of Sarmatian faces, the stola only seems to illuminate the fact that I amnotone of them and do not belong on their throne, ready to cast judgment.

A makeshift aisle has formed down the center of the tent, and it is here that people wishing to speak to Memnon—and me—line up.

A light summer rain patters against the tent’s roof as the first people approach us. A barrel-chested man with a frizzy, brownbeard walks up alongside a lanky boy. Both walk with their chins held high, and there is a visible level of pride in the man’s eyes.

When they are only six paces or so from us, the man stops and bows, his son following suit.

“Your majesties,” the man says, straightening, “I’d like to request my son join in the next battle.”

I startle at his words, my eyes moving to the boy. The youth might be thirteen, though certainly no older than fourteen. He still has peach fuzz on his upper lip.

Memnon leans forward in his seat, his leathers groaning with the action. He nods to the man, then turns his attention to the son. “What is your name?” he asks, leaning a forearm on his knee.

“Kasais, my king,” the boy says, his eyes flicking to Memnon, then darting quickly away.

“Kasais,” Memnon repeats. “A strong name.” He continues to study the boy. “And how are you with a spear, Kasais?”

“Decent,” the boy answers, “though I am much better with a bow.”

“The finest shot for his age,” his father interjects.

“The finest?” Memnon says, peering at the man and raising his brows. “That is high praise, but then”—his scrutiny returns to his son—“that comes from your father, who clearly adores you. How wouldyousay your mounted shot is?”

“Good,” Kasais replies. “Though I’m better at firing a forward-mounted shot than a Parthian one.”

Memnon nods. “Yes, well, shooting backward on horseback is a difficult skill to acquire, which is why few besides our people can do it at all.”

My husband settles back into his throne and watches Kasais. “Are you ready for battle?”

“Aye,” the boy says, nodding.

“You have prepared your mind and body for the act of killing—and potentially dying yourself?”

Kasais lifts his chin and clenches his jaw. “Aye.”