‘And, of course, Nero is entranced?’ Acerronia spoke up.
‘He’s infatuated. Poppea is now divorced from Otho but still plays the reluctant maid.’
Creperius picked up a piece of shellfish. Agrippina seemed fascinated by a point beyond his head.
‘They are coming for me, aren’t they?’ Domina whispered.
I half rose from the couch. Agrippina’s face had a stricken look. Her gaze had shifted to a shadowy corner as if she could see things we couldn’t.
‘Who’s coming, Domina?’ I murmured.
‘They are all there,’ she replied. ‘Dark-blue rings round their eyes, mouths gaping . . .’
‘Domina!’ I said harshly.
She broke from the reverie. ‘So what, Creperius, is our little milkmaid saying to my son?’
‘Domina, this is only gossip.’
‘What is she saying?’ Agrippina’s voice rose to a shout.
‘Poppea demands if Nero is really Emperor of Rome. “The true ruler is your mother,” she rants. “All the important decisions are still hers”.’ And then Creperius repeated Poppea’s most bitter jibe, ‘“They call you Empress Nero and your mother Agrippina Emperor of Rome”.’
I looked at my mistress. She sipped at the Falernian, rolling it round her tongue as she did when she was deeply engrossed. This was a fight to the death: Poppea was a deadly adversary.
‘Poppea,’ Creperius continued, ‘is supposed to have given your son a gift wrapped in silk. When Nero undid the bundle all it contained was a golden coin displaying your head. “Why is this?” Poppea hissed.’
‘And?’ Agrippina broke in.
‘To give your son his due, Nero was confused. “I am an artist”, he replied. “That’s all I care about”. Poppea knelt at his feet. “And your mother?” the little hussy persisted, “saves you the trouble of being Emperor. She is always reminding the people, not that she’s Nero’s mother, but Germanicus’s daughter: that’s more important than your poetry.’
‘Who told you this?’ I asked, fearful of the effect this conversation might have on Agrippina’s raw nerves.
‘It’s chatter,’ Creperius replied defensively, ‘but the proof of the dish is in the eating. If I am wrong, why doesn’t Nero come here? Why doesn’t he invite Domina back to Rome?’
Agrippina slammed her goblet back on the table.
‘Parmenon.’ She pulled herself up from the couch and stared across at me. ‘How do you think it will come?’
‘What?’ I asked innocently.
‘My death.’
The supper room fell quiet. Even the sea seemed to hear her words, the roar of its waves now hushed.
‘He won’t go that far,’ Acerronia intervened. ‘He would be accused of matricide! To kill the daughter of Germanicus!’
‘No, he wouldn’t do it,’ I replied, ‘but others might do it for him.’
‘How?’ Agrippina’s voice grew strident. ‘Advise me, Parmenon, how?’
‘Not by poison: they’d have to get too close, and they know that you take every known antidote. Besides, the finger of suspicion would be pointed firmly at him.’
‘The dagger?’ Agrippina asked.
‘Too blunt and bloody,’ I retorted. ‘Again the trail will lead back to him. No, Domina, I think we’ve had our warning. An accident. Something which can be explained away like a collapsing roof.’
Agrippina laughed abruptly.
Creperius spoke up. ‘Or perhaps the August Nero will allow his honourable mother to live in peaceful retirement?’
‘Nero will,’ Agrippina offered. ‘But Poppea won’t. My father always advised, “Know your enemy!” If I were Poppea, I would be plotting my rival’s death. She’s no different.’ Agrippina looked at me archly. ‘She’s the gladiator I have to kill.’
‘We could strike first,’ I continued. ‘Kill Poppea. Poison her asses milk. Put some filthy potion into the powder with which she adorns her face and hands.’
Agrippina shook her head.
‘No, she’ll be waiting. The others would seize the opportunity to accuse me.’ She beat on the table top with her fingernails. ‘What will happen?’
‘Exile?’ Acerronia spoke up. ‘Perhaps the Emperor will exile you to some distant island or the wilds of Britannia?’
‘We could flee,’ I urged. ‘Go north to Germany, and seek the protection of one of the legates?’
Agrippina wasn’t listening.
‘Bring Salvara,’ she murmured. ‘Hurry!’ She snapped her fingers. ‘I want her now!’
Salvara was a witch, a local wise woman who lived in a hut amongst the pine-clad hills behind the villa. I left and sent servants to fetch her. I was surprised when they returned immediately with the old woman between them. She was a bony bundle, dressed in rags stinking of the unguents and potions she distilled. Youthful clear grey eyes full of mockery gazed out of Salvara’s lined face.
‘I was already on my way,’ she announced, her tone cultured and refined. I recalled rumours that, many years ago, she’d played the great lady in Pompeii.
‘How did you know?’ I asked.
‘I’d like to say I’d divined it but the news is all over the countryside that the Augusta has received a messenger from Rome, and a festive banquet has been held.’ She cocked her head slightly. ‘Yet I can hear no music or singing.’
‘It’s not that type of banquet,’ I replied. ‘The Augusta waits.’
I took her down the colonnaded portico. Agrippina had been drinking more quickly, her face was slightly flushed, her eyes enlarged and glittering. Salvara bowed and squatted before the table.
‘I knew you would need me.’
She undid her small leather sack, laid out the bones on the floor and, opening a small stoppered phial, sprinkled these with blood. Without asking permission, she took Agrippina’s goblet and sipped from it before mixing the wine with the blood. Salvara stirred the bones, praying quietly to herself. I have never believed in the black arts, although I have seen many tricks that would take your breath away. Some of the best mountebanks in the empire have performed their games before me. Agrippina was as sceptical as I, but Salvara, like Joah the Jew, was different: there were none of the tricks, the theatrical gestures and the high drama of the professional charlatans. Only an old woman crouched before Domina, staring down at the bones, crooning softly to herself. The song was like a lullaby a mother sings to a fretful child. My eyes grew heavy. I shook myself and looked around. Creperius and Acerronia lolled on their couches as if they’d drunk deeply. Agrippina only had eyes for the witch. The chamber grew very warm, and a wind blew in, dry and sharp like that from the desert.
‘What do you see, Mother?’ Domina asked. ‘Has the veil lifted?’
‘What do you want me to see?’ came the sly reply.
‘My fate.’
‘Death!’ came the answer.
‘We are all to die, Salvara, but how, why, when?’
‘When, I cannot say.’
Some of the oil lamps guttered out. The darkness around Salvara grew more intense.
‘Will I be reconciled to my son?’
‘Before you die you shall be reconciled,’ came the tired, slow reply.
Salvara had her eyes closed, rocking herself backwards and forwards, her fingers pressed to the floor.
‘And whom should I fear?’
‘The master of the sea.’
‘The master of the sea? Will I drown?’
‘You shall not drown, Domina, but be wary of the master of the sea!’
‘Neptune?’ I called out.
Salvara wasn’t listening. ‘You shall be reconciled, Domina, and receive your son’s sweet embrace and loving kiss. But, remember my words, be careful of the master of the sea!’
The old woman’s head drooped. The warmth dissipated. Agrippina, her eyes brimming with tears of joy, toasted me silently with her cup.
Chapter 3
‘No one ever becomes depraved overnight’
Juvenal,
Satires II. 83
Agrippina was a changed woman. Salvara had said that she would be reconciled with Nero, so she thought it was only a matter of waiting. Once again the villa became a place of light, and musicians and dancers were hired. Agrippina spent more time out in the garden, tending flower beds, gossiping with Acerronia. It was all sun, no shadow. I tried to advise her to act prudently. She may have heard, but she certainly didn’t listen. She spent more time on her appearance, hiring hairdressers, buying perfumes and pastes. She even went out to apologise to the chickens and made us all laugh with the little mime she concocted. I hadn’t the heart to remind her that she was still in the arena and the game had yet to begin. Would Poppea give up? I knew Nero for what he was: a spoilt, depraved actor who could play any part the mood suited him. I was troubled by the phrase ‘master of the sea’. What had Salvara meant by that?
Not being superstitious, I decided it was only a matter of logic. Since no one would dare draw a dagger, or so I thought, against the daughter of Germanicus, and poison was ruled out, Agrippina’s death would have to appear an accident. I took matters into my own hands. I patrolled the garden at night, checked doors, paid out money for information to the pedlars and tinkers who wandered the roads.
Antium became busier as the weather improved and the people left the city to take the sea breezes. Our next visitor was that doddering old fool, the banker Quintus Veronius with his balding head, perpetually dripping nose and eyes which looked as if he never stopped crying. He’d made a fortune in the Egyptian corn trade and spent most of his wealth raising peacocks. He’d once made the mistake of inviting Caligula to dinner. Our madcap Emperor arrived and spent most of the evening shooting at the birds from a balcony. The peacocks died and Veronius had a nervous breakdown. He’d retired to Campania and spent his life in mourning until Caligula’s murder. Veronius was a fool, who could be used by anyone. He arrived at the villa in his cumbersome litter as if it was a chance visit, but of course, he’d been sent deliberately. The news he brought only delighted Agrippina further.
‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ Veronius slobbered over his wine. ‘The Emperor, Augusta, is full of your praises. He’s banished two actors from Rome for their lying attacks on your Majesty.’
‘And Poppea?’ I asked wearily.
‘She’s seen less and less. There is news,’ Veronius continued, ‘that Nero is to visit Baiae.’
Every wrinkle disappeared from Agrippina’s face, which became as smooth and creamy as that of a young girl.
‘He’ll visit me,’ she murmured, ‘or he’ll invite me to his villa. You wait and see.’
Veronius continued his journey and Agrippina’s preparations became more frenetic. At last it happened. A bireme arrived on the coast. Officers of the Praetorian Guard marched up the shingle, along the white, dusty trackway and presented themselves at the main door of the villa. They delivered their invitation. The Divine Augustus, Nero, Emperor of Rome, intended to celebrate the feast of Minerva in his imperial villa at Baiae, and he wished Agrippina, ‘the best of mothers’, to be his honoured guest. If I hadn’t stopped her, Agrippina would have kissed them to death. Both officers stayed with us overnight, saying that the bireme would take Agrippina and her household across the bay the next day.
The villa was transformed: servants scurried about; chests and coffers were packed and taken down to the beach. Agrippina emptied her wardrobe, fiercely debating with Acerronia which shoes she should wear, which dress would best suit the occasion.
I travelled lightly, taking just my tunic, sandals, sword, writing implements and a small casket which carried antidotes to the best-known poisons. I also sought the company of the two Praetorians. Former centurions from the German legions, they were only too pleased to be away from the court and to sample the best wine from Agrippina’s cellars whilst sunning themselves in the garden. I introduced myself and let it be known that my father had been an officer in the Second Augusta. For a while we chatted. They were honest men, more interested in fighting, women and wine than in court scandal. Nevertheless, I picked up something: they found it hard to look me in the eye, and if I mentioned Poppea they became tight-lipped. When I reminded them that Agrippina was the daughter of the great Germanicus, they looked away, as if more interested in the flowers and herb plots. I had learnt enough. These men were not party to any plot but they had ears, quick wit and could sense the undercurrents of the court. I returned to the villa and urged Domina to be careful. Agrippina, however, was at her most stately.
‘Parmenon, you are like an old fishwife!’ she snapped. ‘The Emperor has come to Baiae. My son has returned.’
‘It could mean your death!’ I hissed.
Agrippina strode across, shut the door and returned with her eyes blazing. She stood only a few inches away from me. I could smell the herbs she used to sweeten her breath and noticed how the wine had purpled the corner of her lips.
‘I don’t care, Parmenon. If I die in his arms that’s enough for me. Do you understand?’
It was what I had always suspected. Agrippina loved Rome and power, the adulation of the legions, the right to appoint and dismiss, to grant life or death. Nero, however, she loved above all.
We left late that afternoon. Our slaves carried our baggage down to the beach where the marines were camped. We were taken out to the boat and, sails unfurled, the bireme turned, canvas snapping, oars splashing, to make its way across to the waiting glory of Baiae.
Agrippina lounged on a couch in the stern, flanked by Acerronia and Creperius. The sea was calm, just that gentle, undulating movement which always curdled my stomach. I ignored my seasickness and stared at the mist curling across the water. I was aware of the snapping sail, the creak of the rudder, the oarsmen ready to bend and pull, the cries of the pilot, the sharp orders of the captain. Could this be an ambush, I wondered? A trap? Yet the Praetorians seemed relaxed enough. They were dressed in half-armour and wouldn’t relish an accident at sea. The mist lifted, the afternoon sun grew stronger. Baiae came into sight, that den of sin, the playground of the rich and powerful. Green-topped hills overlooked white shingle and dark-green pines, the sun flashed on gleaming marble. Orders were rapped out. Agrippina prepared herself, trying to remain calm as, shielding her eyes, she studied the beach.
‘There’s a procession!’ she exclaimed. ‘Look, my son’s coming to meet me!’
I followed the direction of her eyes and saw the flash of standards, the sheen of gold. I glimpsed soldiers, slaves in white tunics, silk-caparisoned litters, following a group of men walking down onto the beach. Agrippina was as excited as a girl waiting to greet her parents. As the bireme was expertly beached, a guard of honour ran up, a troop of Praetorians who helped Agrippina ashore.
‘Mother!’ Nero came running down the beach, arms extended.
Agrippina hastened to meet him. They met in the most tender of embraces. He kissed her on the cheek, neck and breast before kneeling to hold her hand to his cheek. I studied the Emperor closely. He had got fatter, his reddish hair had been allowed to grow and was carefully coiffed and curled along the brow and nape of his neck. The barber had dusted it with gold. His cheeks and jowls were heavy, his neck thicker. He glanced past Agrippina. His perpetual frown, due to his short-sightedness, cleared and his popping blue eyes crinkled in a smile. I noticed his red-flecked beard and moustache and that he was dressed in the pale-green tunic of a lyrist. He got up, his pronounced paunch making his legs look even more spindly. He tightened the white silk handkerchief round his throat.
‘To protect my voice,’ he explained.
Nero wore no other ornamentation except an exquisite emerald monocle which hung from a gold chain round his neck. Nero had seen me clearly enough but he elegantly held up the monocle and peered.
‘Welcome, Parmenon.’ As he spoke, his voice squeaked and he looked alarmed and tapped his chest carefully.
He grasped his mother’s hand and walked over to me, studying me in that affected manner.
‘You
r Emperor welcomes you.’
His hand snaked out. I fell on my knees and he patted me on the head affectionately, as if I was a spaniel, before adding insult to injury by brushing past me to greet Acerronia and Creperius.
‘Oh, you can get up now, Parmenon,’ he called over his shoulder.
I got to my feet, embarrassed by the mocking laughter from the small group which had accompanied Nero. They were all there. Seneca, the self-proclaimed great philosopher, grasping the folds of his toga as if he was to deliver a panegyric from the rostrum – Seneca of the balding head with the thick heavy features of a wrestler. He did not join in the laughter but raised his hand in salutation. Beside him was Burrus, dressed in elegant half-armour, his severe face impassive under close-cropped hair, and a look of distaste on his thin lips. He was a born soldier and ever ready to act the part. Tigellinus, dark as a Nubian, thin-featured, his eyes bright with malice, and that constant smirk on his ugly lips. A figure came from behind him: Anicetus, small, sallow-faced, dressed in a purple gold-lined toga, his arms hanging down like those of a monkey; the deep lines on each side of his mouth only increased the likeness. He’d led the laughter. My heart froze. I had forgotten about Anicetus: as Admiral of the fleet based at Misenum, he was one of Nero’s ‘masters of the sea’. He was the Emperor’s former tutor and he hated Agrippina with all the passion of his evil soul. For a short while I caught all their enmity, malice and hostility. From the likes of Anicetus, it came hot and bubbling; from Seneca and Burrus, it was cold and businesslike.
Behind me Nero was calling Agrippina the ‘best of mothers’ and profusely thanking the Praetorians and the captain of the bireme. It was all pretence! The blue sky, the dark line of greenery, the white shingled beach, the laughter and the greetings were a sham. We’d entered a trap. This was a death chamber: Agrippina would be lucky if she left with her life. Nero, however, was cavorting about. A tray of cups were distributed and toasts exchanged. Nero led his mother off, his arm round her waist, his head resting on her shoulder. They made their way from the beach up to the waiting litters, where the silk folds were pulled aside. Nero solicitously helped his mother up and climbed in with her. The Praetorian Guards, resplendent in their armour, circled it in a ring of steel. Tigellinus cracked a joke, and Anicetus bawled with laughter. Catching the word ‘litter’, I knew that they were resurrecting the old scandal that Agrippina had tried to seduce her own son whilst riding in a litter through Rome. The procession moved off, along the tree-lined trackway towards the imperial villa. Acerronia and Creperius took advantage of a second litter, but I decided to walk. Seneca and the others put as much distance between themselves and me as possible, but Burrus hung back. I decided not to waste time on niceties.
Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) Page 4