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all of his self-control not to throw everyone out and embrace her the moment they’d first been introduced.
    Suddenly, unbidden images of her despicable brother came to mind, and Athaulf found it hard to believe the two could possibly be blood-kin. One, the very essence of stupidity, evil and debauched, and the other, the very essence of kindness, gifted and warm, her heart gentle as a lover’s kiss.
    He took another swig, and a tiny movement caught his eye. Lowering the bottle, he swallowed, realizing he could see her palace in the distance. There was someone moving on the balcony, someone in a pale gown. He stepped forward. Could it be? His heart thumped like a battle drum.
    The figure turned toward him and stopped, but the distance was too great to be sure if she was returning his gaze.
    Placidia! He wanted to call out her name.
    Almost immediately she was gone, the balcony empty, and Athaulf stood transfixed, for as she’d turned away, the moonlight had danced off the dark curls cascading down her back, her long tresses swaying as she moved, grazing the lovely curve of her bottom.
    • • •
    The sculptor was covered in marble dust, chiseling, chiseling. The bust was starting to take shape, already hinting at the man’s genius, but Honorius yawned in boredom. He hated the heavenward gaze of his statue’s cold, marble eyes, but it was necessary, reminding the plebs he was God’s Chosen One.
    As the artist tenderly wiped the stone with his fingers, stroking the cold marble as though it were a woman’s flesh, Honorius scoffed and motioned for Britomartis and Adriadne. They hurried forward to do his bidding.
    He pulled Adriadne close, kissing her throat, her skin smooth, warm, and scented with rose water. “Massage our neck and shoulders,” he said. He felt Britomartis nestle against him. “And you,” he grabbed hold of her shapely behind, “you little minx, we desire a leg tickle.”
    Giggling, the girls playfully struggled away from him, then started to massage. He closed his eyes, their fingers soft upon his body, exactly the way he liked it. He reveled in the ripples of pleasure running up and down his legs, the deeper caresses erasing the tension in his back.
    “My lord,” Britomartis whispered, “I think you would purr if you could.”
    Honorius laughed. “Where is Rutilius Namatianus?”
    “I am here,” he called from the corridor.
    Honorius didn’t bother to open his eyes. “We are bored. Recite your most recent poem for us.”
    There was silence. Only the tap, tap of the sculptor’s chisel filled the air.
    Honorius opened his eyes. Namatianus stood there, gaping like an idiot.
    “My lord, it is not yet finished,” the man protested. “Perhaps I — ”
    Honorius frowned. “We care not. Recite what you have written so far.”
    Namatianus nodded, breathed deeply, and then intoned:
    “Hear, O beautiful Queen of the World which is thine,
    O Rome now received among the celestial spheres!
    Hear, O Mother of Men and Mother of Gods,
    Thou who, through thy temples,
    Make us feel less distant from the heavens!
    We sing of thee and always of thee —
    As long as the Fates allow, we sing.
    Thou hast created for people of every country a single fatherland;
    For lawless peoples it was great fortune to be subjugated by thee.
    In offering the vanquished the equality of thy rights,
    Thou hast made a city of what once was the world.”
    Honorius was suddenly aware the girls’ fingers had stopped, the sculptor’s chisel was still. This pleased him, for he too was enchanted by the words.
    “ Urbem fecisti quod prius orbis erat ,” he said, whispering the final line. Thou hast made a city of what once was the world.
    How true it was! If only the cursed Visigoths could understand.
    Namatianus cleared his throat. “As I said before, the poem is not yet finished. I plan to honor you in the next stanzas, Venerabilis , for you are the personification of Rome’s glory, come to life.”
    Honorius yawned again.