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“It’s Bessus,” he said. “The
satrap
is here. He must be meeting with Father.”

My heart climbed into my throat. Freshly whipped, I could barely move. But I’d told myself what I had to do if I ever saw Bessus—or any man who might want me—again.

“Help me dress,” I commanded my brother, turning to my side and hissing with pain as the wounds broke open anew, a warm wetness seeping across my back.

“Lie down. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Saving us,” I said, not bothering to cover my nakedness from my brother. I still wore my
shalvar
, but only bandages on my back. “Where are my clothes?”

“Here,” he said, handing me my secondhand robe, a deep umber restitched several times to hide the worst of its wear. Hardly the gown I’d imagined putting on to see the
satrap
again, but I hadn’t envisioned the bloody lashes on my back either.

“Help me?” I asked. I didn’t want to say it aloud, but there was no way I could lift my arms or reach behind me, not for at least another day or two.

“Of course,” Parizad said, relenting.

He held my robe and averted his eyes as I slipped my arms into its wide sleeves and let him fasten my jasper-studded girdle—the one missing several stones near the clasp—on its last loop so it draped around my hips instead of cinching my waist.

“Wait,” he said, retrieving a bottle from a cedar box with a broken hinge. Spicy notes of spikenard filled the air as he removed the stopper and dabbed a few drops of oil beneath my ears and at my wrists. “So you’ll smell like a queen.”

I sniffed and wrinkled my nose. “Or a whore.”

He didn’t respond, but let me lean on him as we walked to my father’s receiving room. The door’s rusted lock had long ago ceased to latch, and we crouched before the thin door, our cheeks pressed together so we could squint through the crack. Riding and campaigning had whittled Bessus from a mountain of flesh into a mere hill, but he was still resplendent in a gold embroidered robe with a crimson
sarband
on his head. He sat across the table from my father in all his gold bracelets and jewels, ignoring a spread of day-old brown bread, freshly shelled peas, and a watery fish soup that the cook could barely coax the villa’s feral cats to drink. But I worried about more than the threat of an empty stomach tonight while Bessus’ eyes roved over the slave girl ladling steaming soup into his bowl.

“There is news that Alexander marches on Babylon,” my father said, his hands twitching nervously as he tore off bites of bread. Crumbs fell from his mouth and tangled in his black beard. I wished a crow would fly through the open window and peck them free, and my father’s eyes along with them.

“There’s a good chance that the city will throw open its gates and allow the Greek hordes to pour into its streets,” Bessus growled, removing his dagger from its scabbard and stabbing the tip of its blade into our table. “I desire your pledge, Oxyartes, and the use of your weapon foundries.”

The same foundries that had sat cold and empty since Bessus had closed them down after my antics in his throne room.

“My foundries?” My father ceased stuffing his mouth and sat back in his chair, still chewing. “I shall always do as you command,
satrap
,” my father murmured, bowing his head like a supplicant, but Bessus cut him off.

“I have no doubt that you will do as I command, provided there’s a reward waiting for you. Unless there are
sarissa
-wielding chariots bearing down on you, and then you’ll scuttle under a rock like a spider with a hawk flying overhead. The illustrious Seven Families already looked down their long noses at you before you hid with the lamed horses during the battle at Gaugamela.”

“My foot—,” my father started to protest, but Bessus gestured for his silence.

“You’ve given them more fodder for their scorn, but there may yet be a reward for you after I’ve assumed my place as the King of Kings.”

I gaped, my fingers fluttering to my lips, but not at the revelation of my father’s unsurprising cowardice. I might be only a fourteen-year-old girl, but even I recognized Bessus’ words as treason. He was the
Mathišta
, the supreme
satrap
and chosen successor, as the king lacked a male heir.

My sound of surprise may have echoed in the receiving room, for my father’s eyes flicked in my direction and I fell back into the shadows. “I believe the position of King of Kings is currently occupied by Darius,” he said. “May Ahura Mazda bless his reign.”

“May Ahura Mazda spit on his reign,” Bessus said, leaning over the table. “Darius is a cowering weakling who has turned tail and run from the Macedonian whelp, not once, but twice. He does not deserve the throne he sits upon and the arms from your foundries will ensure that someone more suited to ruling assumes his place.”

“You seek to relieve your illustrious cousin of so tiresome a burden?” My father’s trembling thumb traced the gouge mark Bessus’ dagger had left on the table. “And if you fail?”

Bessus shrugged. “You know the sentence for traitors.”

My father swallowed hard and his eyes skittered about the room as if searching for an escape. He would scurry off to weigh his options, to find a way to prosper regardless of the outcome.

But Bessus was no fool.

“You will do as I say—remain here in Bactria to oversee the production of more equipment after we march,” he said, dunking a piece of bread in the soup. He took a bite and grimaced, pushing the plate away as if the food was rancid. Perhaps it was.

My father bowed his head like a recalcitrant child. “As you wish,
satrap
. Of course, it would make my heart light if there was an alliance between our families. My daughter, Roxana—”

I almost gasped aloud, so startled was I to hear my name. Parizad’s eyes widened too, his mouth a perfect O of surprise; then he pressed his cheek even closer to mine. Together we peered back inside as Bessus raised his hand. “Your daughter’s name remains a bad taste in my mouth.” He wiped his lips with a napkin. “Much like this soup,” he muttered. “Prove yourself to me and I’ll consider Roxana once again.”

“Perhaps as your wife this time? After all, the King of Kings can take as many wives as he wishes. And if she gave you a son . . .”

I loathed my father, but sometimes I had to admire his audacity. Still, I knew he cared only that he might be the grandfather to the future King of Kings in that far-fetched scenario. My position was inconsequential, at least to him. I sat back on my heels, the lure of being the
satrap
’s—or perhaps one day the King of Kings’—wife dazzling me once again.

I’d refused the
satrap
once in order to best my father and had paid for it today in the courtyard. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“Perhaps when I return,” Bessus said, and I could hear the glare in his tone.

“As you wish,” my father answered, bowing over his hands and kissing his fingertips in a
proskynesis
, giving the
satrap
the honor due only to the king, the temple’s sacred fire, and the gods.

Parizad scrambled to his feet next to me. “Father’s coming,” he hissed.

I almost fell over in my haste to stand, the lashes on my back stabbing me anew, and together we ducked into an open storeroom packed with barrels of fermenting wine. My nose twitched from the dust, but I willed myself not to sneeze.

A choice lay before me, and it would be lost when Bessus left my father’s house. And my father would be staying here, his whip constantly at hand. . . .

I waited for my father to pass, then nudged the door open. I’d scarcely peered into the dank corridor when Parizad yanked me back, jolting my back and making me hiss with pain. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Go keep Father busy,” I said. “Ask him how to hide extra grain from the collectors after the harvest, anything to buy me time with Bessus.”

“Bessus?” A dark understanding dawned on his beautiful face. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to become his concubine and convince him to marry me after he becomes king.” I bit my lip, for I knew not what might motivate Bessus to make me his wife once he’d already enjoyed me, but what choice did I have? Even a life as a concubine was better than this.

I gestured down at my shabby clothes and a crushing wave of doubt nearly stole my breath. “If he’ll have me, that is.”

“A beautiful woman can have a man eating from her hand,” my brother said, pressing a warm kiss to my forehead. “You could have Bessus on his knees with the right words.”

“And if I have my way, Father won’t palm a single copper from the deal.” Even as I said it, Parizad’s eyes danced with glee and a grin spread across his face.

“Father can drown in the well of
Duzakh
,” he said. “But he’ll beat you within a breath of your life if he finds out you tried to circumvent him.”

I’d strip naked in front of Bessus before I let that happen.

Parizad pressed another dry kiss to my forehead, then hurried down the corridor after our father. I drew a steadying breath and slipped into the receiving room.

But Bessus was gone.

“No,” I moaned, almost falling to my knees. Yet the
satrap
couldn’t have gone far in the time I’d been in the storeroom with Parizad. I couldn’t blame him for not wishing to spend a single moment longer in my father’s house than he had to.

I turned and ran as best I could, my breath shallow from the shards of agony in my back.

Pain overwhelmed pain.

I was dizzy from the torment of my lashes by the time I saw Bessus enter the courtyard. His chariot awaited and once it left our walls, my chance would be gone.

“Wait!” I cried out. “I request an audience.”

An honorable man might have refused to see the unwed daughter of one of his underlings, but Bessus of Balkh only inclined his head at me, scattering his slaves with the flick of a beringed and swollen hand.

“Roxana,” he said. “So we meet again.”

I ignored the rush of sound in my ears as Bessus’ eyes raked over me. He sniffed and his nostrils flared at the breeze. I sent my silent thanks to Parizad for the spikenard perfume.

“Out,” Bessus commanded his driver, the axles groaning with relief as he alighted from his chariot. “Now.”

My cheeks flushed with pleasure at this newfound power as his driver scurried after the slaves. I could command a man’s attention with a drop of perfume and a conveniently draped robe.

Power emanated from Bessus, despite the pouches under his eyes and his fleshy nose webbed with red veins. He might have been handsome once, but those years were long since spent, lost to his banquet table and wine cellars. “I assume your father sent you?”

“My father doesn’t know I’m here.”

“No?” Bessus crossed his arms over his belly and twisted a gold band high on his arm, a lurid thing shaped into horned griffins inlaid with enamel and onyx. It glittered brighter than anything I’d ever owned. I longed to touch it.

“If your father didn’t send you,” Bessus asked, “why have you come?”

Was it because I was greedy and grasping, cast in the very image of the father I hated, or because I’d do anything to be free of him? Perhaps both?

My fingers twitched like dragonfly wings, but I clasped my sweaty palms behind my back, letting Bessus’ eyes rove over my breasts.

A beautiful woman can have a man eating from her hand,
Parizad had said. If only I knew the words to say.

“You desired me when I once came to your palace,” I said, hoping he didn’t hear the quaver in my voice. “I’m a woman flowered now, and hoped you might be willing to entertain my counteroffer.”

“As fair-faced as any virgin, yet you speak like a lender ready to fleece me.”

My tongue turned to rock and Bessus leered at me. “Pray continue,” he said.

“I assume my father set a high price for my company the last time you negotiated with him. If you’ll take me from here, I’ll give you whatever you desire. No payment required.”

His chins wobbled as if he was choking back laughter. “A girl like you only has one thing to offer a man like me. Do you know what that is?”

“I do.” I tilted my chin. “And I’d give you my maidenhead of my own free will.”

“Nothing in this life is free,” Bessus said. “What do you want in return?”

I thought on that, although I’d already rehearsed my requests. “A position in your army for my brother.”

“Is that all?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind gold bangles and pearl necklaces, or silk robes and tooled leather slippers. And I’d require your promise that you’ll keep me as one of your women. In your palace.”

“Your father should beat you for this,” Bessus said. “Women do not negotiate with men.”

I didn’t flinch at his accusation, only took his hands in mine and pressed them to my breasts, scarcely daring to breathe lest he feel the edges of the lumpy bandages that wrapped around my ribs beneath the worn orange wool. I tilted my chin so he could drink in the graceful curve of my neck. “This woman does.”

“You’re as slippery as a snake,” he said, but his eyes lingered on the mounds of my breasts, pale as two full moons. “Bangles and necklaces I have aplenty. And there’s always room for an extra woman in my palace.”

Bessus reached out then and ran a coarse thumb over the soft flesh of my shoulder. I shuddered from a mixture of trepidation, fear, and the heat burning in his eyes. I thought of having my own slaves to massage almond oil into my hands and feet, and chests of silk robes and beaded headdresses to wear every day.

“You’ll give me what I ask?” My voice came out breathy and I gasped as Bessus’ lips dropped to my neck.

“No more negotiations,” he said, his hand expertly unfastening my jasper girdle. It clattered to the flagstones, scattering several more shoddy gems.

“Not here,” I said, glancing around the deserted courtyard before leading him to the stables, my heart thudding in my ears. Our father’s horse was only just returned and penned next to our aging donkey, but the ramshackle building smelled of decades of accumulated hay and dung. The musty odor didn’t faze Bessus, for he pushed me into a stall still scattered with the remnants of old straw. Before I knew what he was doing, my hair tumbled from its threads and he tugged at my robe until my breasts were exposed.