Admittedly I was most uneasy. If you are going to form a conspiracy you must trust everyone involved. I knew little about these plotters. Time and again I broached the matter with Agrippina, but she acted as if she was possessed. She wasn’t so concerned about Caligula, more with the child that Caesonia was expecting. One evening, at the end of December, all was ready. The conspirators, or their leaders, gathered in Agrippina’s bedroom, a place of dark damascene cloths, jewelled cups, gold and silver statuettes, expensive furniture of oak, maple and terebinth, ivory-footed couches, stools and chairs made of tortoiseshell. Her large bed dominated the room. It was carved out of rare wood which reflected in its undulating grain a thousand different shades of colour, like that of the great peacock feathers adorning the wall above it.
Her son was not there. She had left him with trusted nurses in her house on the Via Sacre. We discussed how and when Caligula should die. Agrippina finally made a decision.
‘Rome would be too dangerous,’ she reasoned. ‘And when Caligula reaches Germany, he’ll be too well protected. I’ve invited him to visit me. We must do it here!’
‘By poison?’ Seneca asked.
Agrippina disagreed. She opened a leather bag and emptied three silver-embossed daggers out on the table.
‘It will be done publicly enough,’ she continued. ‘And I will take responsibility.’
Agrippina had assumed the role of the democrat eager to save the republic from a tyrant. She laughed as if aware of her theatricality and looked at us from under dark, arched eyebrows.
‘Who will strike the blow?’
‘I will not,’ I replied, getting to my feet. ‘Nor will I take the oath.’
‘Why not?’ Agrippina asked.
I left and walked into the coolness of the garden. The murmur of voices rose from behind me, the sound of a door being firmly closed. I was in a sulk. I hoped Agrippina would have followed me out but I was left to kick my heels.
At least an hour passed before she joined me. ‘The others claim you can’t be trusted,’ she said, sitting down beside me.
‘Well, say that I don’t trust them.’
‘What do you mean?’
Agrippina slipped her arm through mine and pulled herself closer. I smelt her delicious perfume, or was it a soap she used after bathing? Light, fragrant but still cloying to the nostrils.
‘Oh, I trust them, I suppose,’ I confessed. ‘But I don’t trust Caligula. He let you come here. He may be mad as the moon but he must suspect: someone in this villa is his spy.’
Agrippina refused to agree. Two days later Caligula arrived in a gorgeously decorated chariot pulled by four beautiful bays, their manes starred with special gems, breast-plates covered in sacred amulets. He had changed his role, now he saw himself as Charioteer of the Gods. Caligula himself stood upright like a victor about to prepare to receive the palm, helmet on his head, whip in hand, leggings of gold and red covering calf and thigh.
Of course, we all had to watch him drive up and down the gardens of the villa, creating chaos every time he turned. Lawns and flowerbeds disappeared, small, delicate walls were sent crashing under the spinning wheels. A group of Praetorians accompanied him and, of course, Castor and Pollux, his two German shadows. Caligula was frenetic with excitement. After a while he tired of the game, climbed down from the chariot, undressed in front of us and charged into the villa demanding a bath, his tunic and toga.
Agrippina entertained him late that evening. She tried to hide her own unease behind the pretence of a lavish banquet: hens made of wood containing eggs were brought in on platters, dormice rolled in honey and poppy seeds; hot sausages mixed with grilled damsons and seeds of pomegranate; wild pig, boiled carp and large jars of heavy Falernian. Caligula refused to eat unless Castor or Pollux tasted the dish first, whether it was a huge lobster, garnished with asparagus, or lampreys from the straits of Sicily. He even poked his dagger at the truffles and delicious mushrooms. After a while he threw the dagger onto the table and gazed around.
‘I’m off to Germany,’ he declared, and paused, head cocked to one side. At first I thought he was in one of his mad trances till I heard the clink of metal and the tramp of feet. I sprang to my feet, looked through a window and glimpsed pinpricks of torchlight: fresh troops were arriving. More torches appeared, and from outside came the sound of running feet. I heard a scream from the kitchen.
‘I thought I’d supply the entertainment.’
Caligula swung his feet off the couch and stared evilly at his sister. Agrippina kept her poise. I felt my arm grasped. Castor had crept, as quiet as a cat, up beside me. He grunted and gestured with his hand that I re-take my seat.
‘I’m off to Germany,’ Caligula repeated, ‘but, before I go, I must deal with traitors. Right, Progeones, tell your story!’
Our horrid little gargoyle sprang to his feet. Like an actor who has scrupulously learnt his lines, he confessed everything. Agrippina sat white-faced. Lepidus tried to rise but one of the German bodyguard thrust him down. In the darkness behind the Emperor I heard a door open and the hiss of drawn swords as more of his bodyguard arrived. Once Progeones had finished, Caligula clapped, at first softly then louder and louder.
‘That’s the first part of the entertainment!’ Seneca began to cough, spluttering over something he had eaten.
‘Don’t spoil the entertainment!’ Caligula shouted. ‘Take the old fool away!’
Seneca was hustled out.
‘Don’t kill him!’ Caligula shouted over his shoulder. ‘I want to watch our philosopher die! See if he accepts death with the same equanimity as he faced life. Lepidus.’ Caligula looked back at his guests. ‘Lepidus,’ he cooed.
The senator was seized and brought before the Emperor. Caligula swung his foot and cleared the table with his boot, sending dishes, cups and platters flying. Lepidus was forced to sit on the edge, with Castor and Pollux on either side. Caligula picked up a fork that had been used for the sucking pig. With one swift jab, he expertly dug out Lepidus’s right eye. The man screamed and tried to rise but the guards held him fast.
‘Do you see more clearly now?’ Caligula leaned forward. ‘You were married to my sister! You shared my bed! Garrotte him!’
Castor slipped the noose over Lepidus’s shaking head. He took a small tube out of his belt and expertly turned it. We all had to sit and watch whilst Lepidus died with terrible, choking gasps. Occasionally, Caligula asked the German to stop so he could give the half-dead man a stern lecture on morality. The torture continued. A full nightmarish hour passed before Lepidus’s corpse was allowed to fall slack onto the floor. His face had turned purple-black, and blood seeped from the hole where his eye had been.
Caligula raced round, shaking his fingers at the guests. He gestured with his fist at Afer the orator.
‘You should have known better! You are going to answer for your treason in the Senate!’
Others were present, bankers and merchants who had been on the fringe of the conspiracy. The guests also included some innocent neighbours from surrounding villas. Caligula showed no mercy. One by one they were taken out to the garden and despatched by the waiting soldiers. Some were decapitated – Caligula shouting that one man’s head should be pickled and brought back immediately – others were strangled, and a few shackled and bundled into a cart for transport back to Rome.
Agrippina sat throughout the horror as immobile as a statue. Caligula turned on me and clicked his tongue, imitating Sejanus.
‘I’ll deal with you personally, Parmenon.’
He rose, gave Lepidus’s corpse a vicious kick and led me out through the colonnades into the garden. That place of beautiful serenity had been transformed into a flesher’s yard. Corpses lay about. A decapitated head had rolled to rest behind a seat. Pools of sticky blood glistened in the moonlight. Caligula ignored all this as, hand on my shoulder, he went across to sniff at a rosebud.
‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, closing his eyes. ‘Such smells always takes me back to
Capri and the old goat. Well, well, Parmenon, what a pretty mess, eh? What shall it be for you? Crucifixion? The garrotte? Or shall I stick your head on a pike?’
His face was solemn till he burst out laughing and punched me playfully in the stomach.
‘I’m only joking,’ he declared. ‘You knew my spy was Progeones, didn’t you?’
I nodded.
‘And if he hadn’t told me, you would have, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I lied.
‘I can’t kill you, Parmenon. You’re my lucky mascot. But what -’ his face turned ugly ‘- am I to do with that bitch of a sister?’
‘Your Excellency.’ I swallowed hard to prepare the biggest lie in my life. ‘Your Excellency, it’s true she’s a dangerous bitch but . . . she is your sister and that of Drusilla.’
‘True, true.’ Caligula sat down on a garden wall and dropped his lower lip. ‘By the way, where’s that slut Julia? She’s involved as well, isn’t she?’
‘Of course, your Excellency.’
‘Now what were you saying about Agrippina?’
‘She’s a dangerous bitch, your Excellency, and she’s also a blackmailer. She claims to have documents proving you are not Germanicus’s son. If she dies,’ I continued coolly, ‘these are to be released to the Senate.’
Oh, it was a terrible gamble. Caligula was mad. He could have either exploded into rage or returned to the behaviour which had kept him safe on Capri. I wasn’t disappointed. He positively cringed, fingers going to his mouth. I suspect Tiberius had often taunted him with the same jibe. He gnawed furiously at his nails.
‘The filthy bitch!’ he murmured. ‘Is this true, Parmenon? I can have you tortured.’
‘Torture me, Excellency, your lucky mascot. I tell the truth, you know I do. I think Tiberius told her. He had proof, didn’t he? Some filth dug up by Sejanus?’
Caligula was not listening. He turned, speaking to that mysterious invisible presence beside him: a litany of curses and filthy epithets about Agrippina, his own mother, Tiberius and Sejanus.
He paused. ‘What do you suggest, Parmenon?’
‘Be careful, Excellency.’ I knelt down on the ground before him. ‘You are both Emperor and a God. Death is too quick. Separate her from her beloved son.’
Caligula gave a great sigh.
‘Kill him instead, you mean?’
‘No, no,’ I hastened to add. ‘Give her son to someone she hates.’
‘I’ll do that. And the bitch?’
‘Exile her. Not too far away so she’ll know what goes on in Rome.’
Caligula agreed. ‘I’ll have to talk to the Gods about this. But come, come, Parmenon, the punishment must be more than that.’
‘Have her depicted as Lepidus’s lover,’ I continued.
‘Good!’ Caligula held his hand up. ‘That’s very good, Parmenon. I also want the names of all the other traitors involved in this plot, and something else.’ He glared round at the corpse. ‘When Mother returned to Rome she brought the ashes of my father,’ – he emphasized the words, – ‘my father Germanicus, into Rome. Well, she can do the same.’ He bawled for the captain of his guard. ‘Take Lepidus’s corpse!’ he ordered. ‘Have it burnt. I want the ashes poured into the cheapest vase you can find.’
The man hurried away and returned dragging Lepidus’s corpse by the heels. Some of his companions brought out items of furniture and a makeshift funeral pyre was made, before it was drenched in oil and Lepidus’s corpse tossed onto it. Caligula watched until the cadaver caught light.
‘I can’t stand the smell of burning flesh!’ he pouted. ‘It always makes me sick, whilst the sound of bubbling fat . . . Ugh!’ He wafted a hand in front of his nose. ‘Well, I’ll go and look at the other prisoners.’
He walked away, then whirled round.
‘Oh, Parmenon, I haven’t forgotten you. You must follow your mistress into Rome and then join her in exile. You’ll be allowed to return to the city three, no, four times a year, so the bitch can get all the news.’
Off he strode. To my right Lepidus’s body was now engulfed in flames, black billowing smoke and a filthy stench. From the villa came the sound of screams and crashing, as Caligula’s bodyguards helped themselves to the slave girls. I hurried back inside to find Agrippina still sat on the couch, white-faced, tense but ready for death. I told her quickly what I had said to Caligula. She listened hollow-eyed.
‘Where there’s life,’ she whispered. ‘There’s hope.’
She stroked my cheek and then, if I hadn’t caught her, would have crashed into a dead faint onto the floor.
Five days later Agrippina, bare-footed, dust strewn on her hair and clothed in a simple tunic, walked into Rome bearing a chipped urn containing Lepidus’s ashes. She accepted her fate philosophically, more concerned about being deprived of her beloved Nero than any public humiliation. I was forced to walk behind, carrying a cushion bearing the three daggers Agrippina had bought for Caligula’s murder. Praetorian guards forced a way through the jostling crowds assembled on the streets. I was aware of shouts, of strange pungent smells; spice, sulphur, the foul odours from the cesspits and sewers. The black ravens, flocking to the graveyards to pluck at those corpses not properly buried, seemed everywhere. A fire had been lit and its smoke billowed about. The slums disgorged their inhabitants who were only too eager to watch the spectacle of one of the great ones who’d fallen lower than themselves.
Yet there was no jeering, no catcalls, no abuse. People recalled Agrippina’s father, how her mother had brought his ashes back to Rome in a similar but more honourable procession. The senators, the knights and the merchants were also wise enough to know that fortune’s fickle wheel can be spun at the touch of a hand. Today Agrippina was in disgrace but tomorrow . . . who knows? Moreover, Caligula was hated and feared. Here was a woman who had dared to confront him. There was grudging respect and admiration. Indeed, by the time we had left the winding, narrow streets onto the Via Sacre leading to the Palatine, the atmosphere had imperceptibly changed. At the time I was only aware of that cushion which seemed to weigh as much as a rock, of the sweat pouring down me and of the tall, elegant figure of Agrippina, walking in front. She carried the urn with her head held high, gaze fixed before her, looking neither to the right nor the left. We climbed the Palatine hill, on which flowers and grass were strewn as if to protect her naked feet. The commander of Caligula’s bodyguard, a Thracian, realising that this was not the disgrace Caligula had intended, urged her to move faster. If anything, Agrippina walked slower.
We reached the Forum. The intended humiliation had turned into a farce, with the Emperor the butt of the joke rather than Agrippina. The ashes were summarily snatched from her hand, the daggers taken off me as an offering to the Gods, and we were bundled away to some warehouse in the palace grounds. Once the door was closed behind us, Agrippina sat down, face in hands, and cried. I crouched beside her and put my arm round her shoulders.
‘There’s no need for tears,’ I comforted. ‘There’s no need.’
She took her hands away and glanced at me. She wasn’t crying, she’d been laughing. She clutched my hand and squeezed it.
‘Tomorrow’s another day, Parmenon,’ she whispered. ‘I made a mistake, didn’t I?’
I seized the opportunity to remind her of my warnings.
‘I made one mistake,’ she interrupted. ‘Every one in that conspiracy had something to lose and all to gain, except for Progeones. I shall not make that mistake again.’
We stayed in prison for a week. Caligula swept back into Rome. Seneca, surprisingly, wasn’t punished. Someone had apparently informed Caligula that Seneca was going to die anyway, so the philosopher suffered no disgrace. The orator Afer was summoned before the Senate where Caligula delivered a fiery speech against him. Afer took his place on the rostrum and loudly proclaimed that he had no answer as he was more frightened of Caligula as an orator than he was of him as an Emperor. Caligula, the mad fool, was delighted and Afer was pardoned.
Agrippina heard all this; she sat clutching her hands in her lap. ‘You’ll forgive me, won’t you, Parmenon?’
‘For what, Domina?’
‘I always thought there was more than one spy, and I wondered if the second one was you. Now I know that it must have been either Seneca or Afer.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, I would have lost my head if it hadn’t been for your blackmail threat.’
The guards returned that evening. Under the cover of darkness, Agrippina and I were bundled onto a cart and taken secretly out of Rome to a warship at Ostia. It took a full day’s sailing before we reached the island of Pontia, seventy miles off the coast of Naples. It was a pleasant enough place with woods and fields, a beautiful villa on the promontory and a small theatre nearby. The commander of the guard delivered Caligula’s message.
‘Remind my sister,’ he had said, ‘that I have daggers as well as islands.’
Agrippina heeded the advice. She behaved herself. The greatest punishment was the absence of her beloved son who had been given into the care of Domitia Lepida, one of Caligula’s favourite great aunts. If fortune’s wheel was spun again, that was one woman marked down for destruction. Agrippina kept herself busy. She took up the study of botany, birds and wild life, and used the kiln to make pottery. She organised a set routine every day: we would rise early in the morning, and she would run down to the beach to swim and then return for a light meal. She would eagerly seek out any news from the mainland, write letters which were never sent and go out into the fields to collect specimens. If the weather turned harsh, she’d stay inside and work the kiln. She proved to have skilful hands and taught me how to paint the pots. Never once did she openly discuss Rome, Caligula or her son. Since most of the slaves and servants were spies, what conversations we did have took place at the dead of night when Agrippina was certain there was no one around.
Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) Page 14