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The Sarmatian kingdom is a vast expanse of land stretching from the Danubius River in the west to the Tanais River in the east, and from the Borysthenes River in the north all the way down to the Black Sea.

Or so I’m told. The names geographically mean very little to me; all of this land is too far east for my Roman frame of reference.

But I think that it’s going to mean something more to me soon because the settlement is moving.

Tents are broken down and folded or rolled up. Chests are loaded onto many, many ox-drawn carts, and wooden wagons now become families’ homes while we travel from one grazing area to another.

Within a few short days, the expansive city is packed up and carried off, our caravan stretching as far as the eye can see in both directions.

It is as we move across the endless expanse of grasslands that I learn the complicated truth about being a Sarmatian.

According to Rome, these are Roman lands.

It’s obvious enough—every so often, we pass some Roman marker declaring such—but it is just as clear by the reverence we’re given in the towns we pass through that Memnon is considered king here.

We travel south and west, following ancient roads Memnon tells me about. Only this time when we travel, I am ill-suited to it.

I hunch over on the outskirts of camp, retching up my breakfast into the grass, just as I did yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

I draw in a deep breath, grimacing as hunger gnaws at me, so sharp it seems to cramp my belly.

Roxi?

Memnon’s voice is full of concern, but I’m grateful that his kingly duties have drawn him away from my side. He’s been increasingly worried about my travel sickness, and I don’t have the energy to both manage my symptoms and soothe away his concern.

I straighten my tunic and, after placing a spell on myself to ease my nausea, return to my wagon. An apology is on the tip of my tongue for Katiari, who has taken to sharing breakfast with me. She’s seen my recurring nausea several times, yet somehow it never gets less embarrassing.

Only this morning, as I step into my creaking wagon, it’s not just Katiari who waits for me. Memnon’s mother is there as well in all her finery, her brow wrinkled.

“Morning, Tamara,” I say, startled.

“Valiant daughter,” she begins.

Oh no. No casual conversation ever begins this way with her.

I glance at Katiari, who mouths sorry to me.

“You asked her to come here?” I say accusingly.

“As she should,” Tamara answers for her. “And as my son should’ve as well.”

The former queen comes up to me and takes my hands, the bracelets along her arms shivering as she gives my palms a squeeze. “How long have you been sick?”

“I don’t know…” I say. “A fortnight?”

Tamara’s concern doesn’t diminish. “Any other unusual symptoms?”

Again, I’m confused. “Food tastes a little off.” I mean, that is a normal issue that comes with sickness.

She presses a hand to my breast, and I suck in a sharp breath at the unexpected touch.

Memnon, your mother is cupping one of my breasts.

What? he says, alarmed. Gods , he thinks, probably more to himself than to me. I’m coming.

“Does that hurt?” she asks, drawing my attention back to her.

Beneath the shock of her touch, I realize that yes, in fact, my breasts are tender. Actually, really tender, now that I think about it.

I nod.

Memnon, you don’t need to come. I can handle your mother.

Tamara removes her hand. “When was the last time you bled?” she asks casually.

“Bled?” I echo.

I suck in another breath when I finally put together her probing questions. Could I…?

My pulse races at the possibility.

“It’s been a long time.” I don’t know how long. Longer than it probably should’ve been. “Do you think…?”

Tamara smiles softly at me. “You won’t know for sure for a while yet, but yes, it is likely.” She pulls me into a hug. “Congratulations, my daughter. This is wonderful news. So, so wonderful.”

“What is wonderful news?”

I startle at the sound of Memnon’s voice.

He stands at the threshold of the wagon, his eyes moving from me to his mother, then his sister. “And what is this about you groping my wife?”

I’m still too shocked to groan.

“My son,” Tamara begins.

I cut her off. “I’m pregnant.”

His eyes widen, and I think it’s his surprise I now sense coursing through me.

The beginnings of a smile pull at his lips, and his eyes take on a sheen. “Truly?” he breathes. He glances down at my stomach.

“I mean, I think so, yes.” I nod, my smile growing.

A surprised laugh bubbles out of him. “You’re serious?”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

“Your mother believes that’s why I’ve been sick. And why she was fondling me.”

Tamara lets out a huff, though I see her pressing her lips together against her own smile as she watches her son.

Memnon laughs again, and in three long strides he crosses over to me. He sweeps me into his arms, and then he kisses my lips, my cheeks, my neck. “It’s not travel sickness?” he says, pulling away.

I shake my head. “Just pregnancy, apparently.”

I feel his relief, though it’s quickly overtaken by a joy that seems to have wings.

“Gods, Roxi, we’re going to have a baby?” The hope in his eyes makes them shine brightly.

Again I nod, flashing him a shy smile. This isn’t something we talked about, nor have I spent much of my life dwelling on parenthood, but seeing his reaction, excitement starts to well up from within me. This…this might actually be wonderful.

Memnon grins back at me, the action stretching to every corner of his face.

“I love you, I love you,” he says, cupping my face. He kneels and presses a kiss to the soft skin of my stomach. And then he whispers a final line meant for another being entirely. “I love you.”