Chapter 3
48 AD, Rome, Roman Empire
Roxilana, 12 years old
It takes weeks to adjust to having another voice in my head. Weeks of headaches and distractions and beatings from Livia for being absentminded. I feel like I am being unmade thought by thought.
Eventually, I do get used to having Memnon’s voice in my head, thank the gods. It helps that his stray thoughts are in a language I don’t understand. And at night, after the work of the day is done, we often chat.
What are you doing, little witch?
In spite of myself, I smile at the sound of Memnon’s voice as I sweep out the last crumbs and dust that have collected in the living room. Livia has only just blown out her lamp and I can hear her settling into her bed.
“Little witch”? I repeat, my attention snagging on the endearment.
Do you like it? Memnon asks.
Despite its obvious oddness, I … do.
Why witch? I ask.
Because only a witch could reach across nations and speak directly into my mind, he says. You must have more than a little magic in you.
The thought makes me want to laugh, particularly when the hem of my stained stola is tied in a knot midway up my legs and sweaty wisps of my hair have escaped my bun.
I lean on the broom handle. Yes, I’m very powerful. The thought is more than a little appealing, especially when I feel so very powerless.
Memnon hesitates, as though he’s about to tell me something important, but at the last moment I sense him change his mind.
I was also considering “man-slaying sorceress”, he says casually, but you haven’t ever killed a man yet, have you?
Uh, no. I smile at the silly thought as I begin to sweep again.
Once you do, I might have to reconsider the nickname, Memnon says.
“Once I do”? I echo, raising my eyebrows even though he can’t see the action. I have no plans to kill anyone at the moment.
You’re a vengeful spirit—it’ll eventually happen, he says with complete assurance.
I bite back a laugh. Have you ever killed? I ask. I’m still convinced you’re the one who’s the vengeful spirit.
Memnon grows quiet, and the levity bleeds away from the moment.
I have, he confesses, his voice … strange.
You have what? I say, not immediately following. Half my mind is still on sweeping in near darkness, today’s twisted chore Livia forced me to complete before bed.
I have killed a man, Memnon admits. Many, in fact. I killed my first in battle several years ago. I’ve killed dozens since, and I’ve hurt many others.
At first, I’m not sure I heard Memnon correctly. We were just joking a moment ago. Surely he’s not serious …
But he is. I can feel it in the twisting of my gut and the heavy silence sitting between us. My mind just doesn’t want to accept his words.
Once it sinks in, bile rises up my throat, and I nearly drop my broom.
I should’ve known. Gods, the first time we spoke, he had told me he was trying to not get killed. But I didn’t ask questions. If I’m being honest, I didn’t want to know.
Roxilana? Memnon says. You’ve gone quiet.
I set the broom aside and lean my back against the nearby wall, drawing in air through my nostrils.
Dozens? I echo, hollowly.
Memnon pauses. Why did your voice change?
I can taste that bile at the back of my throat. Memnon’s not denying it. And my heart, my foolish heart feels like Icarus, soaring too high only to falter and fall. And break.
My eyes drop to a lit lamp on the nearby kitchen table. It hisses softly, and the tiny flame reminds me of the other, larger flames that haunt my memory.
Immediately, I fall into the past. I hear the screams that end abruptly, followed by wet, gurgling sounds. Death and more death. I can hardly remember the years before that fire, and I’ve entirely forgotten much of the time that followed, but that night—it will be forever burned in my mind.
That’s … awful, I finally say, my stomach knotted and my heart aching.
I sense Memnon recoil from me, clearly off put by my words.
I am a warrior, he says. It is what I do.
After a moment’s pause, he continues. It is a great honor here, to kill an enemy. His voice is some combination of offended and defensive. Every person in my tribe must take a life. Not even our women can marry until they do so.
Every Sarmatian must kill? Another wave of nausea rolls through me.
I think about the Roman legionaries who massacred my family. I think about how I watched my house collapse in on my mother and brother, how I tripped over the lifeless body of my father. How I will never know what happened to my sister, and that uncertainty will haunt me for the rest of my life. I think about the pain of surviving that night—the hunger, the beatings, the ugliness of being unwanted but needed.
Bitterness coats my tongue. Congratulations to you then, on your many murders.
Mentally, I retreat from Memnon, trying to put as much distance as I can between his mind and my own.
And whatever fanciful daydream I made of Memnon, it’s been toppled by harsh, disappointing reality.
The boy in my mind is just as bad as the rest of them.
I don’t willingly speak to Memnon for many weeks. Even then, I’m bitter. Bitter at men who commit violence. Bitter that innocents pay for it with their blood.
During all that time, Memnon tries to talk to me. He explains himself, defends himself, pleads with me to listen.
I want to tell him that I cannot help but listen, unfortunately. And it is unfortunate, because while I do not understand that other language he speaks, a few stray thoughts of his come to me in Latin.
Wish she would talk to me …
Miss her …
And those stray thoughts chip away my resentment. Maybe that’s why, when Memnon does reach out to me one evening as I’m folding finished garments for delivery tomorrow, I actually respond.
Or maybe it’s simply his request:
Tell me about your family, the one you were born into.
I swallow, lowering the stola in my hand, the metal shoulder clasps clinking together. I might not remember my family’s names and I can only sometimes picture their faces, but I loved them.
There were five of us, I begin. My mom, my dad, my brother, and my sister …
There’s not much to my memories, in the end, but what I can recall, I share—like the warmth and safety of sleeping next to my siblings, and my father’s graying beard and his booming laugh, and the way I squirmed as my mother tugged at my hair as she braided it. I talk about some festivals I don’t have a name for, the flowers my sister and I would braid into crowns, and the smell of our house after my mom made one of her strange concoctions in her cauldron.
A part of me is aware this must be boring, but Memnon listens, and he seems genuinely interested—and maybe a little relieved—when he comments here and there.
How did you lose them? he asks now.
My mood shifts, like clouds smothering the sun.
Roman soldiers attacked our village in the middle of the night, I confess, the words rushing out.
Memnon is quiet, but I can feel sadness and a bit of horror well up in him. And … your family? He seems reluctant to ask.
I shake my head, but of course he can’t see the action.
Gone, I force out.
That is why you hate battle, he says with sudden understanding.
I swallow but say nothing. I don’t need to.
What is life like for you now? he asks.
I blow out a breath. I can hear Livia’s voice in the courtyard below our apartment as she speaks with one of the neighbors, and beyond that, the bustling sounds of Rome filter in through the open windows. With it come the smells of the city—excrement and meat, smoke, and the faintest whiff of patchouli.
I take in the apartment—the loom, the piles of fabrics, the baskets of beads and yarn and thread. I look at the worn wooden table and the walls with their chipped green paint.
People live much worse lives, I admit. Ignoring the hunger pains in my stomach and the bruises on my arms.
I don’t care about other people, little witch.
It’s the first time Memnon’s used the term since our fight, and despite the fallout from it, I find I actually do like it.
What is life like for you now? he repeats.
Before, I had everything, I admit. But then, I didn’t actually have everything, did I? It simply felt that way. I clarify, I was loved.
And now? Memnon prods.
Reluctantly, my gaze drops to my bruises.
Now I’m not. And I think it is as simple as that.
It’s quiet for a long stretch, and I listen to the sounds of the city.
Sometimes I hear … stray thoughts of yours, he admits. He’s silent for another long moment. Roxi, is someone— Another pause. Is someone hurting you?
I bow my head, my heartbeat racing. Or maybe it’s his heartbeat. It’s hard to say. My answer lodges in my throat. I don’t know why I want to lie, but I do. I can hear Livia’s voice in my head. It sounds like my own: I’m selfish, I’m stupid, I’m lazy—
No, Memnon says, cutting through the acidic thoughts, you’re not. You’re funny, and kind, and smart and a thousand other things, and if it was Livia who told you this, and if she hurt you— His voice turns threatening, and I remember all over again how violent he is.
Memnon, stop, I plead.
He goes silent, though his emotions are angry, worried.
You have me, he eventually says, his tone gentling. I care about you.
I sit down heavily on one of the kitchen stools. My throat is thick with emotion and I have to roll my lips together to stifle the sob that wants to come out.
Memnon’s hurt people, and he’s likely torn apart families just like mine. Yet every time we talk, he has been kind. It is more than I can say about anyone in this city.
You have me, he says again. You always will, est menulumguva amage.
A few stray tears slip down my cheeks and I hastily wipe them away.
Okay, I say brokenly. I think this means I’m going to forgive him, and we’re going to talk again.
I sense him smile. Then in Sarmatian he adds something else, something I cannot hope to understand:
Vak busu dat dit kuppu sutvuvu evu di’nuvak, pesa suvup azakupusa. Pesa udugab vesamapusa. [1]
He switches back to Latin.
You can always talk to me, Roxi, even if you’re mad at me. Even if you despise me. He pauses. Will you do that? Will you speak to me, even if it’s to curse me? Because I don’t think I can take more of your silence.
I sit there and think over his words, my fingers drawing shapes on the table.
Finally, I say, I can.
And, I do.
[1] You will have everything once more, this I vow. I am yours forever.
