Page 54

The dangling gold beads of my diadem rustle against my hair and my carnelian jewelry hangs heavy on me as Memnon and I ride at the head of his horde, weaving through the streets of Panticapaeum.

Bosporans stand outside their homes and businesses, watching us as we go. Sarmatians are invaders—terrifying, imposing, and largely unwanted—but the people standing in the streets bow and cheer as we pass.

Whatever they imagine we’re doing here, they do not consider us an oppressive force at least. It makes me wonder what they think of the client king who currently rules them.

Past the gates, I can see the large, colonnaded structure, the marble palace perched on the edge of a rise. Beyond it stretches the Black Sea, vast and glittering. It’s hard not to stare at that mesmerizing water and the ships that dot it.

Bosporan soldiers stand guard before the gates, their expressions growing alarmed as we approach them.

Memnon’s magic flows out of him, the indigo tendrils of it coiling around the guardsmen, then slipping into them. Their eyes glaze over, and stiffly, they open the gates, standing aside so we can cross onto palace grounds unimpeded.

We head up the stone pathway, only stopping once we reach a colonnaded entrance hall. Again, Memnon’s magic sweeps over the guards posted, keeping the soldiers docile and oblivious while our small band of Sarmatians dismounts from our horses.

Ferox comes over to me then, slinking between steeds and people. I lay a grateful hand on his head, his presence settling my racing pulse.

I want to turn back now. I want to cajole and plead with Memnon that this is a doomed idea. My fear is a metallic tang at the back of my throat. Rome will always be the monster looming large in my nightmares. I caught its attention once, long ago; I don’t want to catch it again.

But that fear has become a monster of its own, and as Memnon glances at me, dressed in his glimmering armor and golden circlet, confidence in every line of his posture, I’m sure I’m letting that fear get the better of me.

He takes my hand as Tamara, Katiari, and a group of our warriors clusters around us, and together with Ferox, we enter the palace, the rest of our procession remaining behind.

Our footsteps echo in the spacious entrance hall. More Bosporans move toward us, some guards and some aides and servants. Just as swiftly as they approach, Memnon sends them away with his magic.

In front of us, a set of thick cedar doors is propped open. Beyond them looms the shadowy throne room, the only light inside from burning braziers.

When we cross into it, I’m aware of the great many people who fill the space, but nerves and growing dread allow me to only consider the man sitting at the end of the aisle.

Dressed in a toga, King Cotys wears a simple ribbon in his close-cropped gray hair to signify his status. Supposedly, the man is a descendant of the almost-mythical Marc Antony, which to me only means that Rome is really not going to like what we’re about to do.

Cotys was leaning over to speak with an aide, but when he notices our group, he straightens in his seat and assesses my husband with shrewd eyes.

“Memnon the Indomitable, Great King of Sarmatians,” the Bosporan ruler says, gripping the armrests of his marble throne, “you do me an honor coming here.” His gaze moves from Memnon to me and Ferox, then the retinue behind us. “I was not expecting you.”

“King Cotys,” Memnon says, inclining his head.

“What brings you here?” He asks the question jovially enough, but I hear the threads of unease in his voice.

Memnon lets the silence draw out. Finally, he speaks. “I think you know why.”

King Cotys raises his brows. “Have we not paid you enough? Is that what this is about?”

“I am not some thief who must be paid off,” Memnon says. “Nor am I some Roman playing at ruling.”

Cotys noticeably bristles at that.

“I am a king born from a long line of kings and queens,” Memnon continues. “My ancestors have fought and bled and died for this land, and my children and their children will fight and die and rule these lands as well, for I am the rightful king. And it is time I claimed my throne once and for all.”

To punctuate his thought, the great cedar doors behind us swing inward, closing with a great bang.

In the echoing silence that follows, Cotys’s eyes drift from the double doors back to Memnon. The Roman client king stares at him for a long moment, then laughs, his gaze sweeping across the rest of us, his eyes lingering on Ferox.

“Do you mean to usurp me?” He raises his eyebrows. Despite his bold words, I can practically hear the rapid thump of his heart. He must realize, stranded in this windowless room, that even though our group is small, his life is in grave peril.

And if he could see magic, as I can, he would know this for certain.

Memnon’s power is already sweeping across the room, enveloping the Bosporan subjects, shielding them from us and us from them. As for Cotys’s aides and guards, one brush of Memnon’s magic, and their eyes grow glassy and distant.

Calmly, Memnon says, “I prefer the word ousting .”

Cotys stares at Memnon with angry eyes as his men’s legs fold and eyes roll back. Bodies thump to the ground, earning gasps and screams from the crowd of Bosporan onlookers. But then they too collapse. Dozens and dozens of people lie in unconscious heaps.

“Holy gods!” Cotys shouts, rising abruptly from his throne, his gaze sweeping over the room. “What have you done to my people?” His gaze goes to Memnon.

“ My people,” Memnon amends. “They’re temporarily indisposed.”

Cotys stares, horrified, at them all, and I’m sure he believes they’re dead. I can see the soft rises and falls of their chests, but in his panic, I doubt he can.

“The stories were true,” Cotys breathes. His eyes flick back to Memnon. “You use sorcery.”

“Sometimes,” my husband agrees, stepping forward. He places one booted foot on the marble step leading up to the dais.

“No!” Cotys barks out. He reaches for his sword and, with great effort, unsheathes it.

“Do you want to fight me?” Memnon asks skeptically as he climbs the stairs. “We do not need to, but if it’s an honorable death you seek, I shall give it to you.”

“Stay back, sorcerer.” Cotys swings his sword wildly, his eyes darting around the group of us.

Memnon withdraws his own blade and, with one sweep of his arm, knocks away Cotys’s blade, the great sword slipping from his grip and clanging to the ground.

Disbelief clouds the client king’s eyes. Taking a throne is supposed to be harder than this. Otherwise, people would do it all the time.

Memnon closes the last of the distance between them and rests his blade against Cotys’s neck. “Shall this be peaceful, old king, or bloody?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing. Rome will come for you.”

“Bloody it is.” Memnon pulls his sword back.

“Wait!” Cotys cries.

Memnon lowers his weapon as the Roman ruler falls to his knees.

“I don’t want to die.” Roughly, Cotys reaches up and removes the ribbon from his hair, tossing it to the ground. “Take it. The palace is yours—for as long as you can hold it.”

The literal act of removing a king from his throne might’ve taken a short span of time, but the process of actually transitioning authority from Cotys to Memnon and myself will take days, and I’m sure notifying all of the Bosporan Kingdom and Sarmatians will take months more.

In the wake of our conquest, Memnon, myself, Ferox, Katiari, Tamara, and Memnon’s closest warriors now wander the castle together, our footsteps echoing in the quiet, largely abandoned halls. The royals and much of the palace staff have already vacated the premises.

“It’s big,” Katiari notes as she casts her eyes up at the high ceiling.

“It’s unnatural ,” Zosines corrects, spitting off to the side before he realizes there isn’t bare earth for it to sink into.

Unnatural?

No, I couldn’t disagree more. Already, I can feel my excitement rising. I hadn’t realized how much I missed having sturdy walls around me.

“If we settle here, we will grow weak and soft,” Rakas says.

“We will never settle.” Memnon’s voice is cutting, vicious. “But it is time we had uncontested control of these lands we defend. Do you disagree?”

The group stays silent.

We pass through a dining hall with long tables and benches for seating, fresh foliage running along the middle of it. It’s partially set for the next meal, which will never come—at least, not for its intended guests.

Do you like it? Memnon asks me, sidling closer.

Outwardly, he’s been careful to craft his answers so they seem to benefit his people, but I can hear many of his stray thoughts, and most of them revolve around me.

I remember all over again that this plan came about because he believed with full conviction that I deserved to live in a palace.

I take his hand and give it a squeeze. I love it.

And I do. I’m breathless with excitement. The marble halls, the massive columns, the view out to the sea and the boats perched on it—it’s all beyond even my imaginings as a queen.

I smother the worry that rises on the wings of that excitement. Worry over future battles that will be fought for this land now that we’ve grabbed it from Rome.

We head up a flight of stone stairs. “These are the royal residences,” Memnon explains.

How do you know the layout of this place? I ask.

My mother and I stayed here as guests when I was younger, when the former king’s brother, Mithridates, ruled.

My attention moves to Tamara, who’s been quiet this entire day. She peers around, pleased, her proud gaze returning to Memnon again and again. If either of them feels remorse for ousting the former ruler, they don’t show it.

“Warriors,” Memnon says, “you will each have your choice of rooms. Feel free to move any family in here that you’d like. We will still move about the steppe, but while we are in Panticapaeum, we will live like gods.”