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cacophony, a really badly done version of the “Minute Waltz.” Another flutist? But where? The baptistery was empty. Probably someone outside, a bystander. Funny. She raised her flute and played along, appreciating the musician’s struggle, wanting to help. Finally, she heard pure tone, matching hers note for note. Yes, that’s it —
    A whoosh of air, a faraway cry. Gigi’s eyes flew open to inexplicable images, wavy, ghostly shapes: men in togas, women in Grecian-style gowns. The scene flickered in and out, like a broken TV set, and a weird roar filled her ears, like a freight train inside her head. The room suddenly spun, the floor opened wide, and she grasped for the pulpit — but fell headlong into a whirlwind of stars.

Chapter 2
    Spring, A.D. 408, Ravenna
    Senator Magnus glanced down the steps to the entry, fighting the urge to make some excuse and leave the baptistery. He stared at the hairy toes of Rutilius Namatianus, the heathen Gaul who served as Master Poet for the royal court. Golden sandals did nothing to hide the man’s coarseness. It was said all roads led to Rome, but that had changed. Ravenna was now the political center, the place where the Roman Emperor of the West, Flavius Honorius Augustus, preened and schemed with his sycophants and lowborn advisors.
    And dithered with his damnable birds!
    Magnus sniffed in derision and Honorius turned, his brown eyes blazing from the pulpit.
    Take care, Magnus chided himself. The Gaul beside him turned, too, but Magnus kept his gaze fixed on Honorius, forcing a neutral expression. A ghost of a smile played across the emperor’s lips as he glanced at Magnus, his gaze contemptuous. Those hated eyes reminded Magnus of his ignoble ransoming from King Alaric.
    Honorius was forever seeking ways to put Magnus in his place. For years, he had publicly questioned whether the temporary paralysis Magnus suffered in battle was a ruse to avoid combat and an honorable death. But his attempt at branding Magnus a coward had fallen on deaf ears. Even so, new lies were being spread at court, rumors of a sexual liaison between Magnus and Alaric’s stepmother, the Witch of Rocesthes. Honorius had seized upon them, calling Magnus “the witch’s phallus” — but never to his face. The emperor’s slur was vulgar and juvenile, but designed to intimidate, nonetheless.
    Magnus was not intimidated, though, merely filled with loathing. Victoria, his mind called out , I still serve you faithfully, although you have turned your eyes from me. Emperor Theodosius was blind to his son’s base and cruel nature, else he would not have asked me to protect the lout. Hear me now! Release me from this insufferable bondage to such an unworthy emperor.
    A moment passed, then another, yet he felt nothing, no tingling of anticipation alerting him to Victoria’s presence.
    Meanwhile, Honorius had stepped away from the pulpit, expectantly watching the door.
    Magnus frowned. Even now, Ravenna buzzed with gossip about the emperor’s most recent affront to decency — his shockingly cavalier behavior following two recent deaths in the royal family: his young wife, Empress Maria, and his brother, Emperor Arcadius, who had ruled the Eastern Roman Empire from Constantinople. It was too soon for Honorius to give self-indulgent baptismal ceremonies, let alone the drunken palace orgies known to have taken place since the funerals.
    All men bore shame, but Honorius reveled in his. He had mocked Magnus for not falling on his sword after the ransoming, as was expected of any defeated commander. The depraved spawn of Hades had demanded it of Magnus, hounded him for months, but Magnus could not, would not commit suicide for him. He would rather sacrifice his honor than sacrifice himself for such a man.
    But now, Honorius used him in his dealings with the Visigoths and Magnus played the part, ever mindful of his oath to Theodosius. His life was a sham of falsity and insincere devotion, flattering Honorius with