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When he’s done, he wipes his blade on the body’s clothes, then picks up something. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s gripping is a head . I have to force down my rising sickness as I stare at the thing’s hideous visage. Memnon stalks over to the group of captives.

“Is this what you wished for?” he asks, holding the slack-jawed head up. “Your leader’s death?” The silence that falls across the field is absolute. Not even the bugs or birds break it.

“Look at him!” Memnon commands, shaking the head. “Tell me it was worth it!”

The captives remain grimly silent.

“No one crosses our people and lives!” Memnon bellows. The Sarmatians gathering around him whoop and howl, adding to the macabre moment, and some of the captured soldiers shrink in on themselves.

“And you”—his gaze sweeps over the prisoners—“you unfortunate few—you won’t simply die,” Memnon says, shaking his head.

The first tendrils of unease coil in my belly.

He paces down the line of them. “I trust you have heard of my power?”

A chill works through me at the malevolence in his tone. I’ve never heard him like this.

“In case you haven’t,” Memnon continues, “let me tell you now: I can bend your mind to do anything .”

That chill deepens as my unease grows. I remember back in Rome how not even Nero, the emperor himself, could escape Memnon’s power.

“You will leave this place and return to your people,” Memnon orders.

“And there will be one thought and one thought alone in your mind: slaughter . You shall do to those you love what you have tried to do to my loved ones. And then you will die, either by your brethren’s hands or, if they won’t kill you, then your own. ”

Someone from the line wails, and I feel that cry. I have seen—and committed—a lot of atrocities over the last night. But none of them come close to this.

“From this moment on,” Memnon says, “consider yourselves cursed .”

Memnon drops the severed head, the appendage hitting the ground wetly. He moves to the line of captives, who are now writhing in their bindings, trying to escape the Sarmatian king. Their feet must be tied as well because they get no farther than a few arm spans by the time Memnon reaches them.

One by one, my husband grasps their heads, his darkened magic entering their noses and mouths. Many of them thrash against him, but as soon as his power takes hold, their forms go preternaturally still and their eyes unfocus.

I’m shaking again, shaking from renewed horror. They may be the enemy, and gods how I hate them, but what Memnon is making them do…

Please, Memnon , I plead. Stop this cruelty.

Right in the middle of his work, Memnon bows his head. You’re awake.

I don’t think he expected that, and for a moment, I am sure he is ashamed.

Please , I beg again.

This is war, my queen , he says. I am sorry you must see it.

But he is not sorry he must inflict it. That is clear enough.

He hesitates only an inhalation longer, then raises his head and resumes his malevolent work. Once he’s finished, he straightens. The men at his feet are subdued, their eyes glassy, distant.

Memnon nods to Sattion, who stands nearby. “Cut the prisoners loose and let them each take a horse.”

There are no more whoops from the group. There is no glee or triumph, just somber silence broken only by the sounds of men moving through the grass, a few low moans from the injured, and the sound of rope being sawed through.

Sarmatians gather the needed horses, many of which are speckled with blood. It’s unnervingly civil, how the beasts are handed off to the now-freed prisoners, who patiently wait for their steeds.

I watch, horrorstruck, as these former captives hoist themselves into the saddles and ride off. My mind is filling in their futures—how they will return to their people and open fire on them with their bows or skewer them with their swords.

Perhaps there is justice in this retribution, but still, it sickens me.

My skin pricks as Memnon pivots his attention to me. Scarred and bloody, muscled and armored, he looks every bit the barbarian Romans told terrible tales of.

His men are still talking to him, but he ignores their words, striding across the battlefield toward where I sit.

Fear rises in me, and I try to scoot away, but my limbs are still far too heavy and hurting to move.

Please don’t run from me, Roxi , he beseeches.

It’s not like fleeing is a viable option for me in this state. Unfortunately.

When Memnon reaches me, he kneels and scoops me up as though I weigh nothing.

Put me down , I say.

My husband’s grip tightens, and I feel a flash of hurt across our bond. You’re still too weak to walk , he states.

Then have one of your warriors help me.

I will not ask someone else to take care of my wife in my stead. You can hate me, but you will do so in my arms.

If I had the energy for it, I would scream.

Memnon carries me to a warhorse and swings us both into the saddle, using his magic to assist him. He maneuvers my legs so that they’re on either side of the steed and presses my back against his chest.

You overused your magic , he explains as he does so, his voice so gentle. The leaden sensation will go away, but it takes a while. Until then, I’ve got you.

My lower lip quivers. I hate that I can still see those cursed Dacians far in the distance and already Memnon is back to being the caring, supportive husband he always is. I hate that it makes my horror and fear of him seem petty.

He glances over to Zosines, who stalks around the battlefield, checking on the wounded.

“Bring me Bastiza’s head.”

I’m trembling as Zosines retrieves the severed appendage and brings it over to us, handing the grotesque thing to Memnon.

If I had the strength, I would physically recoil from my husband. As it is, I lean away from the hand that holds the head, right into Memnon’s bracing arm.

“Warriors,” he calls out. “Mount your steeds and ride with me. It’s time to announce the attack is over.”

Now the shouts return, the men rallying around their victory.

Memnon urges his horse forward, and together we ride around the battlefield, circling the corpses until all his fighters have hoisted themselves onto their steeds. Then, with Memnon at the front, we gallop back to the smoking husk that is our city.

Many of the structures have burned, and the survivors sit outside what remains, their eyes hollow, haunted.

Scattered among them are the wounded and the dead.

As their gazes lift to Memnon, however, their expressions brighten.

A cheer rises, then catches, following us through the settlement to the center of camp.

The main clearing is a mess of bloodstains, gore, and lines of bodies. The main tent beyond it sits silent, but as the cheers rise, the doorway parts and people creep out.

Memnon steers us around the clearing’s perimeter once, twice, holding up the severed head for all to see as Sarmatians rapidly gather.

Once the area is full of onlookers, he tosses the head into the center of the space, dirt and grime collecting on it as it rolls.

“That is what remains of Bastiza, son of Zoutoula, King of the Dacians. He is the man who led our enemy here, into our city, to kill us while we slept.

“He sought to smoke you from your homes and pierce your bodies with his weapons. He sought to take you captive so that he might bargain your lives for our land. But one does not fight with Sarmatians and win!”

Shouts go up as the crowd grows.

“And we cannot be killed.”

Another shout goes up.

“And we will have our vengeance!”

The battered, weary people around us are roaring now, their weapons raised in the air.

“We shall use his skull as a chalice and drink to his defeat,” Memnon declares.

Drink from what now?

More cheers. People spit at the head, or else they kick more dirt at it.

“And the next time we see the Dacians in battle, they will tremble before us. We will not stop fighting them until we have razed their kingdom to the ground!”