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My face flushes. “Women don’t ride like that.” “Roman women,” he corrects. “But you are to be a Sarmatian, and our women sit astride their horses.”
I stumble back as Nero cries out, “What are you?” “The closest thing to a god you will ever lay eyes on.”
“If the girl is illiterate, any marking will do,” Nero says. “I want all who read this to know my wife’s name,” Memnon says.
“I didn’t want you to see me as anything but Memnon—your Memnon.”