The Pantheon Portal (Dimension Dancer Trilogy Book 1)

A Thriller Where Time Is a Doorway—and History Is at Stake

What if the past isn’t behind us, but just another dimension waiting to be entered?

Shep Jackson has everything—brilliance, ambition, and a fast track career in the high-stakes world of hedge fund trading. But when he’s framed for insider trading and hunted by federal agents, his future collapses overnight. With nowhere left to turn, he accepts a strange and dangerous proposition: become a “dimension dancer,” one of the rare individuals capable of moving across time itself.

Transported through the Pantheon portal into the volatile world of ancient Rome under Emperor Nero, Shep is tasked with protecting a mysterious dagger tied to the fate of the empire. As he navigates a treacherous landscape of political intrigue, ruthless power players, and historical figures brought vividly to life, the mission quickly grows more complex. What begins as a race to safeguard an artifact evolves into something far greater—an unseen battle that may influence the birth of a movement destined to shape human history.

Blending time travel, historical fiction, and theological depth, The Pantheon Portal weaves together modern suspense with meticulously researched ancient settings. From the trading floors of New York to the shadowed streets of Rome and Jerusalem, the story explores an enduring question: can flawed individuals serve a greater purpose—and at what cost?

The first installment in the Dimension Dancer Trilogy, this novel delivers a fast-paced, thought-provoking journey across dimensions where the stakes extend beyond time itself.

Step into The Pantheon Portal and discover where history, faith, and destiny collide.

Excerpt from the book

59 AD

My lady Agrippina was in an awful state, like none I had ever seen before in my young life. I was twelve years old.

She was shivering. Whether from fear, anger, or the chill at daybreak I couldn’t tell. As my mother tended to the ugly purple bruise on our mistress’s left shoulder, Agrippina was yelling, or I should say screeching, the same phrases again and again.

“That duplicitous little shit!”

“He tried to murder me… the swine… his own mother.”

“What do I do…how do I save myself… revenge myself?”

Agrippina’s uncharacteristic lack of composure was overshadowed by her appearance. She entered her villa wearing a coarse fisherman’s brown cloak. Her hair, beautifully coifed only hours before, was tangled and dripping wet. Her feet were bare and bleeding. Her toenails, pedicured and polished only yesterday afternoon, were broken and bruised.

When Agrippina reached her sleeping chamber, she removed the cloak to allow my mother to tend to her wounds. She was practically naked. Her form fitting garment, made from an expensive, almost diaphanous linen fabric, was in tatters, barely covering her. Even some of her priceless jewelry, exquisite bracelets and gleaming necklaces, were lost. She wore only one earring. I could see the blood still dripping from the opposite ear where the other earring had been torn off.

At that point our mistress took a few deep breaths. Regaining her composure, she addressed my mother.

“Antonia. Forget the bruises for now. That is the least of my concerns.”

Turning to me, she said, “Rufus, yes you boy, stop staring at my titties, you little monster, and grab that robe on the chair and hand it to me.” Then, turning to my father, she said, “You, Publius… take some coins and give them to the poor bugger’s downstairs who fished me out of the water. I might not be around to reward them later.”

My sister Pina was sobbing in the corner. After putting on the robe, Agrippina walked over to her and gave her a hug and stroked her hair. “Don’t worry, sweetie, your aunty has slipped out of worse jams.”

That act of kindness didn’t surprise me. Agrippina was always good to Pina, at least most of the time. Mother too. It was because they were never a threat to her. She recognized pure devotion when she saw it. My father was a different story. She used him, abused him at times, but never completely trusted him. A wise lady.

When my father returned from rewarding the oystermen, she spoke to him and her chief freedman and chamberlain, Faustus.

“Wish that old devil Pallas were here. He would figure something out. Seneca would as well, but the bastard’s gone over to Nero. Can’t blame the toad. He has a nose for politics and knows which way the wind is blowing. Not blowing my way. That’s for sure. But my son’s minions are not here yet, so let’s think this through. Very carefully.”

Just days before, my mistress had been invited by her son Nero to celebrate the Quinquatria, the festival honoring the goddess Minerva that marks the spring solstice. It was going to be a marvelous affair. Most of the toffs were down from Rome hoping for an invitation. They all had villas nearby but none as grand as Nero’s. When our mistress received the scroll from the imperial courier a few days before, she rolled it open with trepidation. Relations were strained between mother and son. No. That’s not true. They were in tatters.