Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries)

by Doherty, Paul

  ‘Go on!’ she urged. ‘You must keep up your strength.’

  A Praetorian came galloping through the gates, young and sharp-featured under the ornate plumed helmet. He paused, his horse’s hooves skittering on the cobbles before, yanking at the reins, he left as quickly as he had arrived. I collected the ashes in a funeral vase and buried them near Misenum on the promontory overlooking the bay. Julius Caesar had once owned a villa nearby. It had been one of Domina’s favourite spots for a picnic, where she’d sit, staring out at the sea and sky.

  Afterwards I returned to Rome to watch and wait. I was left alone: there was no bill of indictment, no harassment by the secret police or the monster’s agents. It was as if I had never existed. Sometimes I received invitations to suppers at the Palatine and, occasionally, I attended. Now and again I would catch Nero watching me with those bulbous blue eyes in that fat, purpling face. He’d smile weakly and I’d smile back.

  ‘Nero can’t sleep at night,’ someone told me. ‘He has hideous dreams. He refuses to go back to Baiae: he claims he can hear the funeral flutes and pipes blowing from the headlands.’

  I didn’t care. I haunted Rome like a prowling wolf, through the quiet districts where the nouveau riche had built their elegant mansions and laid out perfume-filled gardens. I rubbed shoulders with white-robed Arabs, Germans in their strange coats and trousers, Greek and Spanish slaves in their scarlet and gold liveries. I listened to their strange chatter and watched the aristocrats lolling in their litters. I was in the Forum in the early morning when the beautiful statues were bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun. Sometimes I’d sit at the foot of the statue of the She-Wolf, the great symbol of Rome, where an old Arab sold sulphur matches. I sniffed the odour of ripe fruit from the market and the cloying whiff of the perfumed ladies. In the afternoon I’d wander amongst the bookstalls. All the time I listened for news and scandal.

  I was in the city when the monster burnt it, and the wind sent the flames roaring over the Palatine till they scorched the great Babylonian steps on the right flank of the river. Tigellinus encouraged Nero to compose a poem on the fire of Rome. Nero was stupid, or insane, enough to agree. When people pointed the finger of accusation, Tigellinus blamed that eccentric bunch of Jews known as Christians. Condemned as the perpetrators of the inferno, they were cloaked in animal skins, soaked in oil and used as human torches in the great gardens. Further arrests were made and Christians were forced to run round the amphitheatre pursued by ravenous animals. The crowds loved it. Nero boasted that he’d rebuild Rome, but all he managed was his Golden Palace, with its revolving roof depicting the sun and the moon and the main stars of the heavens. Nero would invite people to supper, bombard them with scented roses and force them to watch the revolving ceiling. They’d stagger out giddy and sick, especially if they had drunk too much Falernian.

  Nero publicly proclaimed himself a great artist, poet and, above all, singer. He travelled from place to place staging performances, at which the theatres would be sealed and locked till he’d finished. One person even killed himself trying to climb the wall to escape. Women would give birth and still the monster would burble on.

  Conspiracies, of course, flourished as thick as weeds in a stagnant pool. I watched as those who had hounded Domina to death met a similar fate. Burrus claimed he had a tumour in his throat. He was attended by Nero’s personal physician who gave him relief from the pain by despatching him to Hades. I held his hand as he died and told him about the horrors waiting for him. Seneca, the old fox, twisted and turned, but Nero eventually had enough of him. He died as he had lived, spouting humbug. A centurion was sent to order him to open his veins. The blood came so slowly when Seneca did this that he was forced to slash the veins in his ankles, as well as his wrists. Whilst the blood seeped out into the hot water, Seneca, that old fraud, babbled on as if he was Socrates. He even asked for hemlock! He had an eye for history, did Seneca. Yet he died as he’d lived, totally blind to the truth. When the tribunes brought the summons of death, I managed to sidle in amongst his acquaintances and clients, and when the fatal moment came, I slyly drew alongside him to whisper in his ear that Agrippina would be waiting for him on that far, dark shore.

  What of Tigellinus and Locusta? Nero didn’t kill them, but others did. I watched Locusta being paraded through Rome before she was strangled, and, catching her eye, I made the sign, the well-known curse for someone about to enter the underworld. Others died just as violently. Poppea, who had replaced Acte in Nero’s affections, became pregnant and Nero kicked both mother and her unborn child to death in a fit of rage. Little Octavia had already been banished and invited to open her veins. The poor girl was so terrified that the blood didn’t flow so they drowned her in boiling water. Nero had wanted to divorce her so he could marry plump Poppea, and tried her on trumped-up charges of adultery.

  ‘Who with?’ Octavia cried.

  Nero cast about for a name and came up with that of his old friend Anicetus.

  ‘Confess you slept with Octavia!’ Nero insisted. ‘Or I’ll put you on trial for murdering my mother!’

  Anicetus confessed and was given comfortable retirement in Sardinia; which is where I caught up with him. He was washing his clothes in a vat of greasy water when I cut his throat. I had spent six months of my life hunting him down. All the others went into the darkness, some quietly, some cursing.

  Nero went from bad to worse. He became a new Caligula, his depravity and cruelty shocked all. He plundered the treasury and made the imperial throne a laughingstock. In the provinces the discontent spilled over until Vindex, Governor of Spain, rose in rebellion and marched with his troops on Rome. It was the opportunity I had been waiting for. As Nero panicked, I joined his household, bringing false comfort and promises. Nero had changed. His face was coarser, vein-streaked, his neck fat and thickset, his stomach bulging out in a sack-like paunch. To the very end he didn’t believe what was happening. He grasped my hand, tears brimming his eyes.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come, Parmenon,’ he whispered. ‘At a time like this, I need my friends and allies.’

  He was totally forgetful of that dark, wind-swept evening in Agrippina’s villa. Portents started to appear all over Rome. I did give these a little help and tied a bag to one of his statues with the phrase:

  ‘TRULY HE DESERVED THIS’: a menacing reminder of Agrippina’s murder. The bag was a symbol of the ancient punishment for a matricide: to be sewn into a sack with a cook, a goat, a viper and an ape and thrown into the sea. Such auguries unnerved Nero. He dragged me into his bedchamber which looked unclean and badly swept.

  ‘Last night,’ he whispered, ‘I dreamt I was steering a ship when the rudder was forced from my hand. Octavia’s ghost came over the side and tried to drag me into the water. Above her head was a swarm of huge winged ants! They picked me up and carried me to the Mausoleum of Augustus, where the doors were flung open and a voice boomed, “COME IN NERO, WE’VE BEEN WAITING!”.’ His fingers went to his lips. ‘What shall I do, Parmenon, what shall I do? If only Mother was here!’

  The others gathered around him, his freedman Phaeon, his secretary Epaphroditus, Acte faithful as ever, and his new love, a young Greek called Sporus, the spitting image of the dead Poppea. According to rumour, a surgeon had turned Sporus into a woman.

  They were of little help and could only advise flight, but Nero still dallied.

  ‘Must I really flee?’ he whined. ‘Must the master of the world escape like a thief in the night, his nose hidden in his mantle?’

  That evening, 8 June, fresh letters arrived at the palace stating that yet more legions had renounced their allegiance to him. In a furious burst of temper, Nero broke his two favourite cups, the Homer goblets. A special poison was sent to him in a golden casket. I urged him to go to the Servilian Gardens to meet certain Praetorians although I knew what their response would be. They taunted him with being frighened of death and turned away.

  We returned to the palace to find that the g
olden casket of poison had been stolen and that, apart from the faithful few, his household and guards had fled. Nero became hysterical. He ran on to the palace steps, screaming that he would throw himself into the Tiber but the only response was a mocking laugh from the darkness. At last he calmed down, and it was agreed we’d flee to Phaeon’s villa, about four miles to the north-east of the city. Nero, clad in a sorry tunic, with a dirty old cloak thrown over his face, joined us in the stables. We galloped through the night, under a dark sky clouded by a threatening thunderstorm. On one occasion we passed a group of Praetorians, and Nero let his cowl slip and someone glimpsed his face. Soon we were out in the countryside where low hills were honeycombed with quarries and carpeted with grass and gorse. We turned our horses loose and forced our way through briars and brambles towards Phaeon’s deserted villa. Phaeon tried to persuade him to shelter in a cave but Nero, gibbering with fright, refused. Eventually we reached the villa, where Nero sheltered in a cellar on a dirty wine-soaked pallet. Phaeon brought some crusts of bread, and the Emperor of Rome chewed on these, talking to himself, wondering what to do.

  Morning came and the day dragged on. I sat by Nero, watching his fleshy face gibber with fright, the sweat mingling with tears. May the Gods be my witness, I had no compassion for him. He droned on that, since he was such a great artist, perhaps the people would forgive him and allow him to retire and spend his years composing poetry and singing. Such hopes were soon dashed. A messenger arrived from Rome, bringing news that sentence of death had been passed on Nero. He was to be stripped, his neck fastened to a wooden fork and be beaten to death. Nero immediately grabbed the daggers he had brought with him. He pricked his neck and chest but lacked the courage to thrust deep. He begged Sporus to show him first how to die. When that effeminate monster refused, Nero beat him till he fled in terror. Time and again Nero got up and prowled round the cellar muttering, ‘It is not seemly. Nero! Rouse yourself! Rouse yourself!’ He turned to us.

  ‘Bring water and wood!’ he begged. ‘Prepare for my burial.’

  He still believed he was in a play, acting out a part. Matters were brought to a head by the sound of horsemen outside; shouts, the jingle of harness and the clash of armour. Nero crouched in a corner of the cellar, one of the daggers at his throat.

  ‘Help me!’ he croaked.

  I crawled across; his hand was trembling.

  ‘Faithful Parmenon,’ he whispered. ‘Why have you stayed with me?’

  ‘Because your mother asked me to.’

  His eyes widened, his mouth opened to scream for the others congregated in the doorway at the other end of the cellar. I grabbed his wrist and forced the dagger into his throat. The sharp pointed edge cut deep. As blood bubbled out from both wound and mouth, he leaned forward, coughing, his eyes popping hideously. I could hear the shouts of the approaching Praetorians. Nero tried to touch me, his body trembling.

  ‘What—’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘What a great artist perishes in me . . .’

  ‘Aye, Nero, and what a great monster,’ I replied.

  His eyes were already glazing over in death, as Phaeon and the others held back the soldiers. I slipped down a narrow passageway, which led out to an old wine cellar, its roof long gone. I climbed the walls and in the distance I could see the soldiers crowding round their horses. I hid for a while then fled. Behind me, the last of the great Julio-Claudian family had died like a rat in that dirty cellar.

  I allowed others such as his secretary to take the honour and credit of having persuaded Nero to die and thus save Rome and its Senate from a humiliating trial. I stayed out of Rome for months, watching as the generals fought over the empire. Galba, Otho, Vitellius: all reigned for a short while before they joined Nero in death, leaving the empire to that cunning, old fox Vespasian and his two darling sons Titus and Domitian. The stage had been cleared. Tiberius, Claudius, Agrippina, Caligula, Nero, and all their hangers-on, were gone like leaves in autumn: dry and dead, nothing but whirling memories. I bought a small farm near Misenum, to be close to Domina’s grave. I erected a proper tablet, laid flowers. I also married a local girl, who was soft and kind, more interested in the seasons, the sky, the soil and the sea than the harsh lust for power. She became a follower of the Christos and tried to persuade me to take their rites. I refused. One night she cuddled close and spoke into my ear.

  ‘The blessings of Christos,’ she whispered, ‘will protect you against the demons of the underworld.’

  For the first time in a long, long while I threw my head back and laughed uproariously. Demons! Fear of demons? Why should I be frightened of demons? I’ve lived with them all my life!

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Suetonius, Tacitus and the other Roman authors give a detailed description of the bloody, violent politics of Imperial Rome during the first century AD. Naturally, they are biased. Such writers yearned for a mythical Golden Republican Age when the virtuous ruled and the common good was pursued. Nevertheless, the convoluted, violent politics of the imperial court require little exaggeration. Rivals fought to the death and, when they fell, always dragged others with them. Agrippina’s task was doubly hard; being a woman she had to strike quickly and ruthlessly, relying more on her wits than on the power of the sword. Hemingway claimed the greatest virtue was courage: Agrippina, daughter of Germanicus, certainly possessed such a virtue. She truly was a ‘Mulier fortis et audax’, a brave and audacious woman. She rose to the pinnacle of Roman imperial power and lost it because of her love for her son, Nero.

  In the main I have kept faithfully to sources, including the well-documented stories of Caligula’s ghost and the eerie hauntings which took place after his death. I must point out, before readers write in, that Nero may have used an emerald or a monocle with a concave lens. Seneca certainly discovered how letters could be magnified through a water-filled ball of glass which would operate like a concave lens. The various descriptions of Nero’s attempt to drown his mother are rather confused. I believe that the shipwreck described in this novel, is a probable and accurate account. Agrippina’s grave can still be visited and, quite recently, the German city of Cologne paid her public recognition by erecting a statue to her. Agrippina would have been amused, but at the same time deeply appreciative of such a gesture.

  Paul Doherty