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My face is flushed as we ride through the streets of Rome, following the escort Emperor Nero sent us. I sit astride Memnon’s horse, riding it like a man does, my stola and tunic magically split to accommodate me. Whatever boldness and excitement I felt when I first made the decision, it’s gone now.

Memnon keeps a possessive hand against my stomach, bracing me against his chest. His magic rings my torso and limbs, further binding me to him.

This is no normal ride; it’s more of a procession, one that largely shows off Sarmatian might.

Memnon must’ve used those peculiar abilities of his to allow us to ride so boldly—almost victoriously—through the streets of Rome, a place infamous for its Triumphs, processions that commemorate Rome’s might and showcase the defeat of foreign kingdoms.

All eyes are on us. The people take me in, their eyes drifting from my bridal crown and veil to the barbarian king at my back. I see them lean into one another and whisper, and I can’t help the blood that rushes to my face. I may not have been born a Roman, but I was raised one.

You are shaking , Memnon notes.

I am…afraid , I admit.

Whatever for?

I’ve never had so much attention on me. And I don’t think I like it.

It is they who fear us , he says. They look at us and know my men and I could cut them down faster than they could scream. We are the stories they tell their children at night to make them behave.

I scan the crowd, and sure enough, the people do look afraid—afraid and curious and perhaps a touch in awe. At least when they look at these Sarmatian warriors.

Maybe they are afraid of you, but they aren’t afraid of me. When they look at me, it’s just pity and derision.

“Oh, but they are afraid,” Memnon insists, whispering the words in my ear. “They see you in my arms and they know that you are no Roman—not anymore. You are one of us.”

As his horse canters forward, he continues, “Sarmatians are the fiercest in the world. They are trained from birth to ride horses and wield weapons. They must fight in at least one battle before they are allowed to marry. And you are to be their queen. You will wear the riches of my empire, and you will ride astride my horse as my people do, and you will show these people that you were made to rule my warriors.”

I draw in a shallow breath, my trembling hand coming to rest over Memnon’s where he holds me fast. I don’t answer him—not even in my head—but I do thread my fingers between his and give him a squeeze.

I lift my chin, and I bear the stares a little better for the rest of the ride to the Circus Maximus.

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, Romans can be 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.

Memnon’s eyes flash with amusement just as Nero leans toward him. “Will you show me your tattoos?”

Thus begins the emperor’s single-minded focus on Memnon, who looks less annoyed by the attention than I know he is, thanks to our bond.

While they chat, I watch race after race of chariots circling the arena.

“There is no better entertainment than the games,” Nero says to my right. “I doubt you have anything like it to the east, save what we Romans bring you.”

“I have seen one arena local Romans have made in Panticapaeum, but it is nothing like this.” Memnon gestures to the massive stadium we’re seated in.

“But there is battle,” Nero says, like that’s some sort of consolation. “And there must be plenty of it. Otherwise, your kind wouldn’t be known for your ferocity.” None too smoothly, the emperor adds, “Rome could use a strong ally such as yourself.”

I rub at my chest again, feeling a growing pressure bearing down on it. The sensation is accompanied by a restless tug beneath my skin.

Probably just nerves.

Memnon opens his mouth to respond when Nero leans forward, his eyes on the arena.

“Oh, oh, it’s beginning, Sarmatian,” he says, distractedly grasping Memnon’s forearm.

What does he mean, beginning ? The chariot races have continuously run throughout this entire…

The thought withers away when I return my attention to the arena. The chariots that streaked across the racecourse have disappeared, the clouds of dust they kicked up now resettling.

An announcer holding a metal cone shouts something too muddled for me to make out, but as the arena’s repeaters shout it to their stadium sections, it causes the crowd to roar.

Moments later, men enter the arena and their names are announced, to various degrees of applause. None of it means much to me, but I watch it with a sick sort of fascination.

These must be gladiators.

“Some of these men are criminals, some are trained fighters, and some are both,” Nero explains.

“We make wagers on who will win. I’ve got my eye on Darius right there.

” He points to a muscled Roman with a receding hairline and a broad, crooked nose who strides onto the field.

“He is a beast in the arena,” he tells Memnon excitedly.

“Wicked as the worst of them but a gods-blessed killer.”

I shiver as a round of applause goes up for him, and the man raises his arms, hands clenched in fists.

Roxilana .

I glance over at Memnon, only to find he’s looking at me, even while Nero prattles on next to him.

A soft smile tugs the corner of his lips as he studies my features.

This is not at all how I imagined our wedding day going , he admits, but it is still the single greatest day of my life.

He punctuates his words by laying out his arm, palm facing up in invitation.

Tentatively, I take his hand, threading my fingers through his.

How to explain his touch? Like a memory and a dream rolled into one. It’s equal parts thrilling and comforting.

Before I can even fathom a response, a roar rises from the crowd.