The guards hunted the revellers through the trees and into the streets. Some were executed immediately, others were loaded with chains and taken off to prison. As the wine and opiates wore off, Messalina panicked and fled to the house of the Chief Vestal Virgin, begging her to plead with the Emperor. The priestess refused. The Empress of Rome, the beautiful Messalina, still dressed as a Maenad with fading garlands round her neck, was reduced to running from one end of the city to the other, vainly imploring former friends for help. No sympathy was shown and she tried to leave Rome in a cart used for removing garden rocks.
At the Praetorian camp Claudius was wavering. Agrippina whispered hoarsely to me that if the Emperor changed his mind we would all have to flee from Messalina’s undoubted fury. She conferred quickly with Narcissus and Pallas but was openly alarmed when a guards officer announced that the Empress had appeared at the camp gates, an arm round each of her children, Britannicus and Octavia. The guards let her in and Messalina threw herself on the Emperor’s mercy. I lurked in a corner of the imperial pavilion and saw that Messalina was using all her beauty, charm and eloquence to gain a hearing.
The Chief Vestal Virgin arrived, pricked by conscience, to argue that a wife should not be executed unheard. Narcissus and Pallas intervened, rudely telling the Vestal to return to her religious duties. The old woman, frightened, mumbled an apology and withdrew. Narcissus now attacked Messalina, saying she was unfit to be a mother and ordering Britannicus and Octavia to be taken away from her. He crouched and whispered in the Emperor’s ear that Messalina had effectively divorced him by her impious marriage to Silius. Then, his voice rising, he started on a long list of Messalina’s former lovers. Claudius could do nothing but cry, shake his head and moan loudly.
Messalina shouted at Narcissus to produce proof. The Emperor glanced expectantly at the freedman who was unable to answer until Agrippina decisively intervened. She hastily wrote a short note and passed it to me. I read it quickly then handed it to Narcissus. His podgy face, red with embarrassment, eased into a smile, and he bent down again and whispered in the Emperor’s ear. Agrippina had given him all the proof he would need.
‘We will go to Silius’s house,’ Claudius declared, lurching to his feet. ‘And seek the necessary evidence.’
Once we’d arrived at Silius’s house, Narcissus, prompted by Agrippina’s note, pointed out all the items from the imperial palace, gifts from the Empress to her lover, that were crammed into every available corner. Claudius was a greedy, acquisitive man, and when he saw the statuettes, vases, precious cloths and other items brought out and laid at his feet, he issued orders for the arrest of Silius and all his companions and returned to the camp. Once there a hasty platform was erected and the captives brought in. Unluckily for Messalina, they did not challenge the accusations but simply asked for a speedy death. One by one they were hustled from the platform to be decapitated by guards. They all died bravely except the actor Mnester, who begged for his life.
‘Others,’ he whined, ‘have sinned for money or ambition; I was simply compelled to.’
‘Are we to stand here and listen to this rubbish?’ Narcissus barked. He pointed to the execution grounds now strewn with bleeding, decapitated corpses. ‘Others have died, why spare an actor?’
And Mnester went under the sword.
Once the executions were finished, Claudius insisted on being taken back to the palace, where he ate and drank and grew maudlin over Messalina.
‘I’ll see her tomorrow,’ he declared tearfully. ‘I’ll listen to her explanation.’ He became more and more befuddled, his anger cooling, his lust for Messalina resurfacing.
Pallas reported to Agrippina that Claudius had started to refer to Messalina as ‘that poor woman’.
‘She cannot live till morning,’ Agrippina declared. ‘Where is she now?’
‘She has fled to the gardens of Lucullus.’
‘Then let her die there. Parmenon,’ Agrippina ordered. ‘Go and see her. Tell her the Emperor’s heart has not changed. Pallas, she must be dead by nightfall.’
Reluctantly I left. No, that’s a lie, I wasn’t reluctant: if Messalina survived, she’d claw her way back into Claudius’s affections and both my head and that of my mistress would roll. Whether I liked it or not I was in the amphitheatre facing a fight to the death. Our opponent was down and I could almost hear the roar of the crowd, ‘Hoc Habet! Hoc Habet! Let her have it!’
Messalina was sheltering in an olive grove, prostrate on the ground, with her mother kneeling beside her. The former Empress glanced up hopefully, but when she saw me her lip curled.
‘So, Agrippina’s shadow has arrived,’ she mocked.
I knelt down beside her. Even at this moment, Messalina was incredibly beautiful: the gorgeous ringlets framing her exquisitely shaped face, those strange eyes that seemed to shift in colour, lips like a full red rose and skin as white as the purest milk. She was still dressed in her Bacchanalian costume, her body coated with the most expensive perfume, her face streaked black where the tears had spread the kohl.
‘What have you come for?’ she whispered, sitting up.
‘You know why he’s here!’ her mother snapped.
This tall, grey-haired, severe woman had little love for her daughter, but at least she had the courage to attend her during her last hours.
‘What’s your name?’ Messalina smiled through her tears. ‘Parmenon, isn’t it? Tell me one thing, Parmenon, is Domina Agrippina in the palace?’
‘She is!’
‘My mistake,’ she sighed. ‘I should have taken her head years ago. It’s finished, isn’t it, Parmenon?’
‘It is,’ I replied. ‘All that remains is an honourable death.’
‘Not here,’ Messalina declared.
She grasped my hand, got to her feet and pointed to a small garden pavilion deep in the trees. Gripping my arm she hurried across, her mother following. Inside, the pavilion smelt of damp wood and leaves, but she must have been there before as a lamp was burning, cushions and blankets were strewn on the floor, and a roll of parchment and a tray of pens and ink lay on a table. Messalina ordered her mother to close the door and pull the bolts across; even as she did so, we heard the tramp of feet followed by a pounding on the door. Messalina crouched on the floor, drawing the blankets around her, whimpering like a puppy. I felt sorry for her at that moment but I had no hope to offer her. The door was forced, and a Praetorian officer with one of Pallas’s henchmen, Evodus, stepped into the darkened room.
‘So, there you are, you bitch!’ Evodus bawled. ‘You haven’t even the guts to take your own life!’
The officer peered through the gloom, recognised me and nodded. Evodus was now indulging in a litany of abuse, as the officer stood staring down at the Empress. Messalina lifted a dagger, and pressed the tip against her throat, then against her breast, but couldn’t drive it in. The officer took a step forward. Messalina’s head went down and she sobbed.
‘Quickly!’ her mother murmured. ‘For pity’s sake, do it quickly!’
The officer took another step forward. ‘Excellency,’ he whispered.
Messalina looked up hopefully. The officer was well trained and his sword leapt from the scabbard. In one quick thrust he plunged it into her neck. Messalina’s mouth opened and shut, her hand clawing at the blood pumping from the gaping wound. She whispered something and slumped on her side. Evodus cackled with glee, until the officer pressed the edge of his glistening-red sword against his throat.
‘Shut up, you bastard! Just shut up!’ He nodded at me and Messalina’s mother, re-sheathed his sword and joined the cohort outside.
I was with him when he reported Messalina’s death to the Emperor. Claudius, deep in his cups, nodded and barked for more wine.
Years later, when everything had turned to dust, and Agrippina and I were preparing to flee to Antium, I broached the subject of Messalina’s fall.
‘Never once,’ I said, ‘after your rival’s death did you refer to her. Yo
u never gloated. You never rejoiced. It was as if she never existed.’
‘She was an opponent,’ Agrippina replied. ‘She died and that was the end of the matter.’
‘How did you achieve it?’ I asked. ‘How did a woman like Messalina lose her senses and involve herself in such stupidity?’
‘Have you ever watched a pastry cook, Parmenon, prepare one of those marvellous delicacies: strawberries mixed with cream, all hidden in layers of pastry?’ She wetted her lips. ‘That’s what I baked for Messalina and she gave me every assistance.’ Agrippina motioned with her hand as if to indicate layers. ‘She was wanton and spoilt. She offended the freedmen. She threatened. She believed she could do what she wanted. She hated me and was determined to take Silius at any cost. The more Claudius tolerated her wantonness, the greater grew her fury, until she lost all reason.’ She shrugged. ‘After that, it was simply a matter of waiting.’
‘As you did?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes.’
‘And the rest?’ I asked. ‘Your marriage to the Emperor?’
‘The groundwork had all been laid,’ she sighed. ‘Claudius was a goat, but as well as his mistresses he wanted a wife who was the opposite of Messalina. He believed that I was quiet and studious and, of course, I had the blood of Augustus in my veins.’ She laughed mockingly.
‘But you were his niece?’
‘Oh, you remember how we managed to overcome that little problem, Parmenon, firstly, I had old Vitellius, who was only too willing to advance my cause with the Senate and with the Emperor.’
‘Bribed already by you?’
‘Of course, as was the Senate and the Praetorian Guard. Although some people spoke out against the marriage – I remember one soothsayer describing it as a “wicked marriage bed, a torch for mourning” – Claudius and I had our way. I thought he would be too old for bed sport but I’ll give the old goat his due, he kept me as busy as I did him. The rest?’ She paused. ‘Well, perhaps, I did overdo it. I became the Emperor’s wife, and received the title of Augusta. My image was stamped on coins, and when I went through the streets, lictors carrying the fasces preceded my litter. I listened to the debates in the Senate, received the flattery of the standard-bearers.’ She smiled. ‘Marvellous times, eh, Parmenon?’
‘And what of the opposition?’ I asked.
‘Come, come, Parmenon. There was no bloodbath. You must admit I was quite restrained.’
‘Except in the case of Lollia Paulina.’
‘Oh yes.’ She tapped her sandalled foot. ‘I had to watch her. Claudius developed a passion for her; he liked to make love to her when she wore all her jewellery, especially those pearls she kept close to her skin so as to retain their purity. Within a year of our marriage, Claudius was inviting her to banquets, but she was stupid enough to start consulting fortune-tellers on how long my marriage would last. She should have kept her nose out of my business. I had her accused of treason. One night I dressed in my own jewels and pearls and gave Claudius a night of delight. The following morning Lollia Paulina was exiled.’
‘But that wasn’t enough?’ I insisted.
‘I had to make sure,’ she replied. ‘Yes, after I sent a guard to decapitate her, I wanted to make sure she was dead, so they brought her head back to Rome in a bucket of brine. I kept the head as a memorial before giving it over for burial. Were you shocked, Parmenon? Of course you were,’ she mocked. ‘Once she was gone!’
‘You made some mistakes.’
‘Oh, yes I did. You’re thinking of Seneca, our Spanish Socrates? What does Petronius say about him? “As big a humbug as he is a philosopher”!’
‘Why did you bring him back from exile?’ I asked.
‘I wanted my son to have the best: a true classical education. He did deserve that, didn’t he, Parmenon?’
Oh yes, Nero deserved the best! The person to have benefited most from the fall of Messalina was Nero. Agrippina had seized power, but not to glory in it. She had only one purpose: to ensure the accession of her son. Nero was adopted as Claudius’s heir. He was declared the ‘Prince of Youth’ and shown every honour, both in public and private. He was given his own household, and Seneca became his tutor. Everywhere he went Nero was hailed as if he was Caesar already, a god-designate. His only rival was Messalina’s son but Britannicus was weak and sickly, and Agrippina soon dealt with him. One by one his friends and protectors were removed and replaced with Agrippina’s spies, and he was edged out onto the limits of court life. I only met the boy on a few occasions; he was smiling-eyed but weak-faced, and I always felt sorry for him. Nero, on the other hand, chilled me. He loved the adulation and delighted in the role his mother had created for him.
To strengthen her son’s position even more, Agrippina decided Nero should marry Claudius’s young daughter Octavia, although she was already betrothed to a nobleman, Lucius Silanus. Agrippina began a campaign against him, accusing him, of all things, of incest with his sister. Lucius cut his throat and Nero and Octavia were betrothed; the fact that they were second cousins proved little obstacle.
Just after his fourteenth birthday, Nero received the ‘Toga Virilis’, the mark of manhood, as Agrippina was in a hurry for her son to grow up. She asked me to attend on him, which I did reluctantly as I would have preferred to keep well away from him. Whenever I was in his presence I was always reminded of Caligula, though Nero looked nothing like his hollow-eyed uncle. By that time Nero’s hair had a strong tinge of auburn, almost copper-red, and was dressed in thick masses of curls around his forehead and the nape of his neck. He had blunt, heavy features and protruding eyes. His near-sighted pale-blue eyes and heavy eyelids gave him a dreamy, innocent look, which he used as a mask to portray himself as the noble young prince, the studious scholar, the Caesar in waiting. Now and again this mask would drop, as it did on the day of his toga ceremony.
Before leaving the palace, Nero consecrated the gown of his boyhood to the House of Gods, and placed at their feet the golden chain every boy wears as a charm during their childhood. Afterwards he was escorted solemnly to the temple of Jupiter amidst the waiting, clamouring crowds. Nero loved every minute of it. He stopped at the crossroads where the priestesses of Bacchus, their heads crowned with ivy, gave him small fried cakes dipped in honey, a symbol of his new manhood. From the temple Nero was escorted to the amphitheatre, where free corn had been distributed to the mob and silver to the troops. Nero, wearing triumphal dress, was hailed and adored, and sat beaming at his worshippers, licking his lips as his eyes leered at the women. He touched my wrist and leaned over.
‘Do you know, Parmenon,’ he laughed. ‘Seneca says I must be offered all temptations so that I can be trained to master my passions!’
His remark created ripples of laughter around us. Nero’s eyes held mine, and his smile faded; even then he was plotting how he could escape Agrippina’s influence. I reported this to my mistress but she refused to believe it.
‘He’s only testing the water,’ she replied.
‘Was it wise to hire Seneca?’ I asked. ‘Remember what the old humbug said; “If you preach austerity to a young man, eventually it makes him want to savour the opposite”.’
‘Seneca is doing a good job,’ Agrippina replied absent-mindedly. ‘My son is being schooled well, so when the Emperor dies, may the Gods forbid, Nero will be Caesar.’
Of course, in power everything has its own reaction. For four years Agrippina was given the run of Rome, removing opposition, managing the Senate, bribing the guards, keeping the freedmen in her camp. Opponents such as Lollia Paulina were given short shrift but Agrippina had no blood lust, preferring instead to influence people, to ease the way, to open doors through guile. Through Pallas she could organise the Senate and eventually the Praetorian Guard. Whoever controlled that crack regiment had a strong power base: they would be the ones to hail the new Emperor and take care of any opposition. Agrippina had already distributed largesse and, of course, as the daughter of the great Germanicus, the troops held her in hi
gh regard. Agrippina made sure that such adoration remained constant and eventually persuaded Claudius to appoint her nominee, the thickset, capable and loyal Sextus Burrus, as Commander of the Praetorian Guard. He was an administrator rather than a campaigner but a man Agrippina thought she could fully control.
Only one obstacle remained: the freedman Narcissus. Although he had joined Agrippina in bringing down Messalina, he had soon realised he’d merely replaced one Empress with an even more powerful one. Narcissus withdrew from Agrippina’s circle, studying her tactics carefully. He did not oppose Agrippina or Nero openly but instead, reminded Claudius constantly of the ‘sweet days’ he had enjoyed with Messalina, and emphasised the rights and duties of poor Britannicus. Claudius had quickly tired of each of his wives and Agrippina was no exception. Once Narcissus realised he was sowing on fertile ground, his campaign gained pace. Britannicus was invited back to court, fawned on and favoured, and Agrippina knew that she would have to strike quickly.
Chapter 13
‘It is part of human nature to hate those whom you have injured’
Tacitus, Agricola: 42
‘What am I to do with Claudius?’
In the spring of the fourteenth year of Claudius’s reign, Agrippina was openly showing her discontent. She was thirty-nine years of age but looked much younger, despite the occasional white hair or faint lines on her olive-skinned face. Power and influence can create eternal youth, or at least the illusion of it. During those years of power, Agrippina had very rarely consulted me: Nero was the beginning and end of her life, and Agrippina suspected I did not share the same, unquestioning adoration of her son. She would hear nothing even slightly derogative about the young man that I secretly called ‘The Monster’. Nero was a superlative actor in front of those who mattered, but allowed his mask to slip with me. He would sidle up to me and make the occasional salacious remark about a senator’s wife or tell me in vivid detail what he would like to do to some person who had inadvertently offended him. He was an apt pupil of Seneca; the old, yellowing-skinned hypocrite had a tongue coated in acid and all the compassion of a striking viper.
Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) Page 19