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“You are glorious, Roxana of Balkh,” he said. His own robe fell loose, revealing two sow’s teats and a chest covered with thick black hair as he kicked off his
shalvar
. He wrestled with the tie that released his
zir-šalvar
and I forced myself to watch as the undergarments fell to the ground, for although I’d often gone swimming with Parizad as a child, never before had I seen a grown man in his full nakedness. His manhood stared at me huge and dark, standing erect from its nest of black hair.

I dared not let him see the hideous bandages around my waist or the ruined flesh of my back. Instead I tugged down my own
shalvar
to expose my pale thighs before he could undress me further, keeping my robe pinned at my waist. It occurred to me then that he might have me here in the stable muck and then rescind his bargain, but from the way he backed me into the stall, it was too late to change my mind even if I’d wanted to. Instead I arched my back to keep from touching the wooden wall as his fingers probed the cleft between my legs. Then with one adept movement he lifted me and hefted me against the wall, smashing my damaged back with a flash of scorching agony. The scream of pain built at the back of my throat, flying free as he parted my legs with his hairy knees and entered me with one hard thrust. I cried out in double agony as he began to move inside me, writhing and wrapping my legs around him to save my back, all the while staring down at the griffin’s gleaming horns still perched high on his forearm.

I bit my fist while Bessus labored into me, grunting like a boar at a trough. My nails dug into the flesh of my palms, but the pain there wasn’t enough to drown out the combined white fire of my back and the flesh between my legs.

I’d been wrong: Pain doesn’t always overwhelm pain.

But I had to make pain look like pleasure, for otherwise Bessus would surely cast me aside like a bruised cabbage leaf. So I moaned my pain through clenched teeth as he thrust into me and used my nails to scratch his back, opening it the way my father had opened mine.

Bessus moaned and stiffened, then fell against me in a crush of flesh, sweat, and coarse hair. “You’re a loud one,” he finally said, standing and shrugging his legs into his silken
zir-šalvar
. I managed to cover my breasts, stiff-spined as I tried not to move the muscles of my back. I expected to feel something for the loss of my virtue, but I could scarcely think through the red fog. Bessus was retying his
kamarband
when his face changed and he pushed me aside.

“What is this?” he asked, running a finger along the stall, its wood marred by a dark stain on its smooth planks.

He held up a forefinger streaked with blood, and only then did I notice the dampness on my back and the cool air against my mangled skin. The bandages had come loose and I felt the gashes weeping warm blood, just like the tears that flowed freely down my cheeks.

“Turn,” Bessus said. “And let me see.”

I did as he commanded and endured a fresh wave of mortification as his hand twined in my hair so he might inspect my back. “Your father’s handiwork, I presume?”

I nodded.

He sighed and some unnamed emotion flitted across his pockmarked face. “No wonder you threw yourself at me.”

“We had an agreement,” I said, my thoughts coming in a jangled rush. “I swear I’ll heal and the scars will be small. My brother has poultices—”

“Have your slaves gather your things.”

“What?”

“I gave you my word that I’d take you and so I will. After all, I can still use a bed warmer while on campaign,” Bessus said, replacing his robe and the crimson
sarband
on his head. “It’s within a father’s right to beat his children, yet it’s a crime against the gods to mar such beautiful flesh as yours.”

“You’ll take me on campaign?” I almost fell to my knees in gratitude that he still wanted me, even as I shuddered at the thought of traveling with an army. I’d hoped to be ensconced in a luxurious estate somewhere, not dragged along on dusty marches with only a cot of tanned hide to sleep on and dried ox flesh to gnaw on each day. But it would take me away from my father. . . .

“You’re under my protection now, and I leave for this campaign against Alexander at dawn.” Bessus looked at me askance. “There will be plenty of spoils to retake from the Macedonian baggage train, silks and baubles to make any woman’s feeble heart flutter.”

I heaved a sigh, gingerly rearranging my robe. It was a start.

“And my brother?” I asked. “Will you give him a position?”

“There’s always room in the ranks for a young man eager to die for honor and glory. Now stop asking for things.”

I wouldn’t let my brother die on a battlefield anywhere. His talents with herbs and healing meant that he could serve as a healer for the half-wits who volunteered to fight. There was time enough to maneuver that from Bessus.

“Will you take me with you to meet Darius?” I dared ask.

“The King of Kings won’t want you,” Bessus sneered, the hardened
satrap
once again. “He prefers the company of his eunuch Bagoas even to his slew of concubines.”

“But you plan to supplant Darius,” I said, taking yet another chance. “I heard you with my father.”

In that instant Bessus stood so close I almost gagged over the smell of fish soup he’d choked down with my father. “Not a word of that to anyone, do you understand?” he snarled. “Pretty face or no, I’ll gore you myself if your tongue wags.”

“Forgive me,” I said, falling to my knees before him. “Take me away from here,” I gasped, “and you’ll have my unswerving devotion until my dying day.”

He stared at me, then pulled me to my feet. “Nothing so dramatic as your death, I hope.”

I followed him to his chariot as he yelled for his slaves and my brother, the hot glow of triumph making me grin as my father emerged, spluttering and demanding to know what was happening. Parizad followed in his wake, his questioning look transforming into one of pride as he saw my face.

“I’ve claimed your daughter as only a man can,” Bessus said, removing the griffin armband and tossing it at my father like a bone to a dog. “Take this and be happy I don’t flog you myself for the damage you’ve done her. Your son—” He glanced at me.

“Parizad,” I provided.

“Parizad shall travel with me on campaign as well.”

I allowed myself a malicious smile as my father dived for the gleaming armband. The next time we met, I’d be his anointed queen, and could command all manner of punishment to remind him of the years of torture I’d endured.

For now I turned my back on him, leaving behind the crumbling house of my girlhood. I was a woman now, and one day I might live in Babylon’s grandest palace, sleep in the frescoed chambers of Queen Amytis, and walk in the Hanging Gardens.

The promise of jewels and silks meant that I could tolerate this bloated carp of a man, the pain in my back, and even the fire that still raged between my legs.

I’d endure the flames of
Duzakh
for a chance to be queen.

CHAPTER 10

Pella, Macedon

Thessalonike

I raised my hand against the unassuming wooden gate and knocked, my heart clogging my throat. Cynnane’s villa—formerly the home of her husband, Amyntas—sprawled far enough from Pella that someone like Olympias might pretend that the white smudge on the horizon didn’t exist. I listened for grunts and the cries of swordplay to echo over the walls, but instead only the breeze and the occasional shriek of a cicada drifted our way.

Arrhidaeus and I had left Pella’s walls after giving the palace guards the slip, and I’d followed my brother through town into the yellowing countryside, past barren orchards of apricot, quince, and olive trees, and farmers harvesting the late-season barley. Cynnane often invited Arrhidaeus to visit her, in compliments of their shared Illyrian blood and her affinity for our simpleminded half brother.

It stung more than I cared to admit that she’d never thought to invite
me
.

But today I’d invited myself, having stewed over Hephaestion’s suggestion that I seek out her and her sword arm.

“Greetings, Arrhidaeus,” the guard at the gate said, removing the wooden bar. “Come to visit with Cynnane today? I see you’ve brought a friend.”

“My sister Nike,” Arrhidaeus said. “She’s taking me fishing after we eat pomegranates with Cynnane.”

The guard allowed us inside with a smile, then relayed my stuttered request to see my half sister. We waited in the open courtyard and I helped Arrhidaeus cut into a pomegranate I’d pilfered while strolling up Cynnane’s path. He dived into it, leaving smears of crimson across his cheeks, while I perused the household gods in the courtyard’s center altar.

I shouldn’t have been surprised to see bearded Hephaestus holding an anvil and tongs in the place of honor. The god of metalwork was a logical choice for any warrior to worship, to ask that the iron of a sword be true and the metal of one’s armor be impenetrable. But there were two goddesses behind Hephaestus. The first was easily identifiable and I stroked the wings of my namesake: Nike. The second wore a helmet similar to Athena’s but was otherwise unadorned, bearing no shield or identifying owl insignia.

A woman behind me cleared her throat and I turned to see Cynnane enter the courtyard. I’d half expected to greet an Amazon, a shield strapped to her back and one breast shorn off, the better to facilitate drawing arrows from the quiver at her back. But the woman approaching me could have been any proper matron, save that her measured paces might have been stolen from an infantry soldier.

And her hair. It really was a disaster, and I was scarcely one to notice as I still sometimes pulled brambles from my own unraveled braid after a day spent in the woods.

“Greetings, Thessalonike,” she said. “To what do I owe this honor?”

As always, my words snarled together when I was around Cynnane. She was everything I dreamed of being as a woman: strong, independent, and worldly. Next to her, I was just a knob-kneed girl.

“Arrhidaeus and I were fishing. . . . Well, we haven’t started yet, but we were almost to the creek and he had a sudden craving for pomegranates,” I said, my heart beating a wild tattoo in my chest. “So I said we could stop at your villa.”

“Arrhidaeus is always welcome here,” Cynnane said, ruffling his hair and bending to wipe a crimson smear from his cheek with the corner of her
peplos
. “You are also welcome, Thessalonike, although I’ve not seen you since . . .”

“Father’s death,” I said. “I know.”

When Cynnane had felled our father’s assassin with a well-thrown dagger, and I’d managed only to throw rocks at his feet.

Silence fell, punctuated by Arrhidaeus’ loud slurps and smacks.

“We share a patron goddess, I believe,” I finally said, gesturing to winged Nike. “My namesake.”

“The goddess of victory was our father’s patron,” she said.

“I’ve recently become an initiate of Dionysus,” I said too quickly.

Cynnane clasped her hands before her. “Olympias’ patron.”

I wanted to tell her that the god of grapes was the only thing I shared with Olympias, but my protest withered under the full weight of Cynnane’s stare.

“Who is the second goddess?” I asked. “Not one of the Olympians, I presume.”

“No indeed,” Cynnane said. “She is Metis, Athena’s mother.”

Metis was Zeus’ first wife, swallowed by her husband while pregnant with Athena. Undeterred, Metis had worked inside Zeus’ head to fashion a helmet for her daughter, causing such a racket that Zeus roared in pain, prompting the god Hephaestus to cleave open the thunder god’s skull, thereby freeing Athena. “The original goddess of cunning and wisdom,” I said.

“Naturally,” Cynnane said. “A woman of any age must be cunning, but I fear she needs those skills even more nowadays.”

With that, she turned and strode toward a room on one side of the courtyard. I worried for a moment that I’d been dismissed, or worse, that she was retreating to the
gynaeceum
to weave, as Olympias so often did, but instead she crooked a finger at me to follow.

“Do you mind if I borrow Thessalonike?” she asked Arrhidaeus. He shook his head, already reaching for another pomegranate in a bowl.