Domina

Chapter 1

Was I in at the end? Naturally! Did I witness her murder? Of course I did! Did I survive? Well, I am here to tell the tale. Nevertheless, I sense the hidden meaning behind such questions. Yes, something in me died with her. I am only glad that, before we parted, she explained who she really was. I am Parmenon, servant to the Goddess, Domina Agrippina. When a star falls from heaven it never falls alone. I fell with her.

They tried to make it look like an accident, but of course it was murder. The monster Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, known as Nero, is a matricide, was a matricide, will be a matricide as long as time runs. Truth will out, be it in a blaze of fire or creeping like water through fissures and cracks. Domina was hardly cold in her grave when leather bags were hung on Nero’s statue. Do you understand the significance of that? It means that Nero should be stitched into such a bag and thrown into the Tiber, the just fate for an assassin! A baby was abandoned in the forum, with a tag on its cradle reading: ‘I WON’T MURDER YOU BUT I LEAVE YOU SO WHEN YOU GROW UP YOU WON’T MURDER ME’.

Domina’s statues were torn down but a wit daubed an inscription on one of the plinths, a quotation from the Classics: ‘I am disgraced, but you are ashamed.’ I especially liked one piece of graffiti for its cleverness: ‘A novel calculation: Nero= slew his own mother.’ A Greek must have written that. (Thank the Gods for the Classics.) Greek numbers are designated by letters of the alphabet, so to put it simply: Neron, in Greek, is equivalent to 1005; the phrase, ‘slew his own mother’ also comes to 1005. Nero would take some time to work that out, if he ever did.

Others were more blatant. Dartius, a performer of farces, at the end of one his shows, shouted: ‘Farewell, Father! Farewell, Mother!’ But, instead of waving goodbye at this point, Dartius imitated the gestures of drunkenness and swimming. It brought the house down though Dartius had to flee Rome by dead of night. The hypocrite Nero staged games to mark the death of his ‘Pia Mater’ — Agrippina had to be mourned. Nero, following the advice of his creature Anicetus, put on a splendid festival, the climax of which was a tightrope-walking elephant. Oh Gods, can you imagine it? An elephant walking a rope? Was that the imperial salute for the daughter of Germanicus, his own mother?

Let me tell my story from the end rather than the beginning. As in all things, it takes a woman to destroy another. In Domina’s case, it was that tasty morsel Poppea, wife of General Otho until she caught Nero’s eye. Poppea was a ripe grape ready for the plucking, with her beautiful face and a body so rich you’d groan at the very sight of it. Poppea the pretty; Poppea the petulant; Poppea with her sun-gold ring of curls; Poppea the spider; Poppea the assassin! Poppea was determined to share Nero’s bed. To achieve that she had to surmount a number of obstacles, which she did with consummate ease. Now, Poppea could easily remove her own husband as well as Nero’s wife; after all, in Rome, divorce was as common as murder. Otho was only too willing to give up his wife, whilst Nero and Octavia couldn’t stand the sight of each other. Both Octavia and Otho were quite prepared to leave the stage to the gorgeous, pouting Poppea, but not Agrippina. A woman who had survived the intrigues of Caligula, the machinations of Claudius, the murderous malice of Messalina? Agrippina was made of sterner stuff. Goddesses do not go into retirement. They either live for ever or die.

So, how do you kill the Queen of Poison? How do you wipe out someone schooled in the harsh atmosphere of the House of Livia, Augustus’s great wife? Agrippina knew every poison available. Her cupboards were full of the antidotes which she regularly took. Poisoning in Nero’s Rome was becoming virtually impossible. There was a legion of tasters, not to mention spies, in the kitchen. The principal rule at an imperial banquet was to eat only from a dish which had been carefully tasted beforehand. I’ve seen many a glorious supper come to an abrupt end at the slightest hint of indigestion amongst its guests. So you can understand Nero and Poppea’s problem. Right from the start they plotted Domina’s murder. However, whilst selling the bearskin is easy, trapping and killing its owner, to misquote the mischievous Petronius, ‘is a different kettle of fish’.

There is always the sword and in the end that’s what it came to, but how do you bribe someone to kill your mother, an Empress of Rome? So round and round and round the plotters went. Nero loved his mother, you’ll say, it must have been difficult for him. Nero loved nobody! His own father once remarked that anyone who inherited his and Agrippina’s blood would turn out to be a bad lot. He didn’t mean it as a prophecy, just a statement of fact. Oh yes, I’ve heard about the allegations of incest: the tumbling in the litter, the stains on Nero’s clothing. Just bear with me and I’ll explain them in due course. It’s the murder we begin with.

Agrippina, may the Gods bless her, suspected it was coming. We were in the gardens at her favourite villa at Antium. We were sitting, as we often did, wetting our feet in a fountain, with a bowl of grapes and a jug of wine between us. Agrippina was tense. She sat, as she always did when spinning her web, with her shoulders slightly hunched. A light sheen of sweat glistened on her full face; her black hair was tied tightly back, except for two corkscrew strands which fell over the ears. She was talking to herself, lips soundlessly moving. Now and again she would pause to chew on a grape and squint up against the sun. It was — is — a beautiful place with raised paths, greenery, flower beds, splashing water, shadowy porticoes and fragrant arbours. Just the spot to contemplate your own end.

‘We are all murderers, Parmenon!’ Agrippina’s tone was meditative, almost as if she was speaking aloud but unaware of anyone listening.

I could have objected, asked her to explain. It wasn’t the time. Agrippina turned and yawned, displaying those double canine teeth. Her lips were purple, grape-stained. I recalled the accusation that she was blood hungry: a killer born and bred, more ferocious than any animal in the amphitheatre. Those double canines only enhanced such a reputation, giving a slight twist to her lips. Yet this was offset by those lovely, well-spaced, dark eyes which could crinkle in amusement, flirt outrageously or glare in murderous passion.

Agrippina was very proud of her eyes. In her youth she used to remark, ‘Let me stare at a man long enough and he’s mine.’ It wasn’t so much a boast as the truth. I mean, listen to dramatists talking about characterisation and developing different personae. It’s nonsense! Most people are simple and boring. Their lives tend to be dominated by a few questions. How they look? Are they healthy? Will they earn a lot of money? Are they in or out of favour? Agrippina was different. You could tell that from her eyes: maternal, soft and tender, cold and dispassionate, amusing, seductive. Her moods could change so quickly. Oh, I concede she was dangerous. Any member of that family was dangerous!

She studied me closely in that lovely villa garden, a faraway look in her eyes.

‘Do you accept that, Parmenon? That we are all murderers? How long is my list?’

I gestured with my hand. She flicked a grape at me.

‘Come on, Parmenon, tell me. I know you’ve kept count.’

‘Domina, it’s so long, it would be easier to say who wasn’t on it!’

Agrippina laughed. My mind was already going through the table of names. Drusus, starved to death in his prison beneath the Palatine, reduced to eating the stuffing from his mattress. Sejanus, his strangled, cat-scratched body thrust into a sack and thrown down the Stairs of Mourning. Caligula, his plotting senators drawing their swords, abruptly realising that, despite all the fuss, he really wasn’t a god.

‘Come on!’ Agrippina urged.

I started to recite the litany. I had only listed seven names when Agrippina clapped her hands.

‘Enough! Enough!’ She smiled, her eyes all soft and kitten-like. ‘Aren’t you missing some out?’

‘Well, there’s dear Passienus. .’

‘Oh yes, my second husband.’

‘And, of course, there’s. .’

‘I know.’ She made a moue with her mouth. ‘Dear Clau. . Clau. . dear Claudius,’ she scoffed. ‘He did like mushrooms.’

Agrippina sat, swinging her feet, letting the water ripple through her toes, humming a song a gladiator had once taught her. Oh, she looked so beautiful with the sun shining, the air perfumed with roses and the scent of crushed grapes.

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Why what, Domina?’

‘Why did I murder? Why did I kill?’ She smiled at me with those butterfly eyes like a young girl teasing a teacher. ‘Shall I tell you why?’

I glanced away. Her words are the cause of this story. Shall I tell you why? That’s where my story begins and ends. For the first and last time, Agrippina, Domina Mea, was going to confess. She looked at me directly, no longer the coquette, the flirt, the imperial wife or mother. This was a soul-wrenching, haunted glance. Never once had Domina ever discussed this. Oh, she’d removed enemies. She’d plotted carefully but. .

‘Why?’ I whispered.

I daren’t look round. Were the ghosts thronging in? Tiberius with his rotting body? Caligula playing with himself as he made love to the moon? Claudius with his lopsided face and quivering jaw, hobbling through the palace or purple-faced as he choked to death. Britannicus would be there, livid with poison. Would his ghost also carry the gypsum smeared over his corpse to conceal the poison’s noxious effects?

‘Why?’ Domina broke into my reverie.

‘Because you had to.’

She pulled a face. ‘Seneca could debate that till the sun froze over.’ She shook her head. ‘Because I enjoyed it? Not really, enemies are like old friends: you miss them when they are gone. No, I killed because I was born to kill.’ She stared at me, then burst out laughing. ‘Don’t sit there scratching that black mop, your shrewd eyes wet with tears.’ She prodded me gently on the tip of the nose. ‘Do you understand what I am saying, Parmenon?’

‘You were born to kill. It’s in the blood?’

‘The imperial blood is no different from any other. I don’t believe I am different from anyone else. No better, no finer.’ She splashed her feet in the fountain. ‘You don’t understand, Parmenon.’

‘I am trying to.’

‘Don’t be petulant.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Think of the amphitheatre. Its awnings are pulled out, the sand is raked, the crowd sits hushed and the gladiators strut into the arena. I always listen for the sound of the iron gate clanging behind them, locked and bolted. There’s no going back. They are to stand and fight, live or die. They raise their swords.’ She imitated the gesture of a gladiator. ‘“We who are about to die salute thee!” The Consul or the Emperor returns the salute. Do you know what I do at that moment, Parmenon?’

She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I whisper the words back: “We who are about to die also salute you”. That’s what we are, Parmenon, gladiators. When you’re born into the purple, you step into an arena. You either fight or die. It’s as simple as that. You can try and skulk away like Uncle Claudius did, and stay in the shadows but, eventually, the roar of the crowd and the whips of the lanistae will drive you into the centre. You either kill them or they kill you.’

I stared across the fountain.

‘Well, Parmenon?’

‘I thought you fought for power?’

Agrippina did not seem to hear.

‘Domina?’

‘If you are born into the imperial purple, life and power are synonymous, you can’t have one without the other.’

‘So you killed because you had to?’

‘No, Parmenon, it’s different. What you are saying implies choice. We fight, we murder because that’s our life. You know when the gladiators separate to choose their opponent — the net man against the swordsman, the Thracian against the Samnite? We are the same. I fought Caligula and, when he was gone, I turned to face my next opponent, Messalina, a victor from her fights. Now it’s Poppea. If I won there’d be someone else. If I lose, Poppea will take breath, and wipe the sweat from her brow just as she glimpses the shadow of her next opponent. There are no exceptions.’

‘Not even. .?’

‘No! Caligula slept with me, his sister. Claudius married me, his niece. You’re referring to my darling son, aren’t you? Can’t you see, Parmenon, in the arena, there can only be one victor.’

‘I’ve heard the prophecy,’ I remarked.

‘Prophecy?’ she mimicked. ‘You mean, the one from that old charlatan Thrasyllus. He wasn’t making a prophecy. He just knew the rules of the game. Shall I tell you how I could survive?’ Her eyes had that hard, venomous look. ‘Do you want me to spell it out, Parmenon? If I want to survive,’ she continued, ‘there’s only one way.’

‘Kill Poppea?’

‘No, Parmenon, kill my son!’

A bee buzzed hungrily from flower to flower. The moment had gone. Its peace shattered. Already I could hear the shouts of the workmen as they returned from their midday rest to continue work on the villa. They were re-roofing and patching up the walls where cracks had occurred. Until recently Agrippina had supervised their work but the looming crisis had diminished her interest.

I reflected on what had happened so far. Nero and Poppea were busy in Rome with little communication between Agrippina and her son. Domina had sheltered at Antium and waited for news. Eventually the silence was broken: Nero was coming south. He intended to stay at one of his villas at Misenum or Baiae. His cronies were coming with him: Otho, Anicetus and, of course, the lovely Poppea. Would there be a reconciliation between mother and son? Agrippina and her old friend Acerronia had discussed the matter excitedly: perhaps the old times were returning and Nero was missing his mother. Perhaps Poppea’s influence was on the wane! The clouds were lifting. I’d been present at such meetings, lying on my couch in the triclinium, with Acerronia chattering away and the actor Callienus sulking if Agrippina did not lavish her smiles on him.

To be truthful I had been hopeful too. Antium was pleasant enough but it wasn’t Rome, and I missed the turbulent crowded streets, the smells of the cookshops, gossiping with the gladiators or strolling through the forum listening to the chatter. Nero had been very busy with building work on the Palatine, a new chariot course with unique mechanical devices. I’d have liked to have seen them. However, things weren’t changing for the better. Agrippina, in her clear but elliptical way, was able to see the brutal reality of the situation. We might all kiss each other, clasp hands, swear eternal oaths of friendship but it was a charade. Agrippina was in the arena of the amphitheatre, the corpses of her past enemies strewn about, and her new opponent Poppea striding towards her. And what of Nero? Her only son, born feet first, the cause of so much physical and spiritual pain? That golden boy with his red-gold, curly hair, moustache and beard cut in the Greek fashion, those popping blue eyes in that chubby, child-like face.

‘Would you?’ I asked. ‘Could you kill him?’

Agrippina snapped her fingers. ‘Like that, Parmenon.’ She plucked up a grape and squeezed it between her fingers. ‘You forget the ancient laws of Rome. A parent has rights over his or her child’s life.’

‘But could you?’ I insisted.

Agrippina’s eyes grew misty. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘No, I could not, not him.’

‘But you are in the amphitheatre,’ I insisted. ‘Your enemies are helmeted and masked. They carry swords and shields. Blood, sometimes, is not thicker than water.’

‘You’re wrong!’ she replied hoarsely. ‘Many years ago I was friendly with Volusus, a Thracian gladiator, one of the best. He fought like a dancer, shifting this way and that, flitting like a shadow around his opponents. One day I went to see him fight. There were four pairs to start with; eventually only one remained. The crowd tensed with anticipation. The combat had lasted for hours and it was now late afternoon. You could taste the blood in the air. People were so excited that a number collapsed from sunstroke, refusing to leave their seats and seek shelter. Volusus had fought like one possessed. You know the way of such events? A gladiator kills his opponent, then searches for another. I’d noticed, and so had the crowd, that Volusus had deliberately avoided a certain fighter. I was intrigued. The remaining gladiator was a mere neophyte, a Dacian with only two or three victories to his name. Volusus was of the same nationality.’ She plucked at the grapes. ‘The Dacian was a retiarius, a net man, who had won his fights more by luck than skill. He came in stumbling. Volusus danced away. Time and again the net was cast only to miss. The crowd turned ugly. Volusus could have finished him off, you could see that. People were becoming impatient. They wanted an end, to stream out to the taverns and discuss the day’s events.’ She paused and watched a butterfly gently hover on the early afternoon breeze. ‘That’s what Volusus was,’ she declared. ‘A butterfly, floating in the arena. He was like a dream walker. The retiarius was exhausted. He made a final cast, stumbled and the net flew out of his hands. He lunged, but Volusus blocked the blow and sent the trident whirling out of his hand.’ Agrippina stretched out her arm, thumb extended. ‘“Hoc Habet, Hoc Habet!” the crowd roared. “Let him have it, let him have it!”.’ She paused.

‘And?’

‘Volusus didn’t give the death blow. He just threw his shield and sword down and walked away. He was the darling of the mob but you know what they are like when the blood lust is up? “Hoc Habet! Hoc Habet!” came the roar, but they weren’t shouting for the Dacian’s death now: that little bastard had recovered himself. He picked up his trident and ran towards Volusus who turned, defenceless. He didn’t stop his opponent driving the barbed blade into his throat, and in a few minutes he was dead, blood pouring out of the wound. The crowd was hostile but the Dacian had won. He was given the laurels of the games. Afterwards I made enquiries and discovered that Volusus and the Dacian had once been lovers.’ Agrippina got to her feet. ‘I don’t need to tell you the moral of the tale, Parmenon. I can sympathise with Volusus.’

She slipped her feet into her sandals and picked up the empty wine goblet. ‘The day is drawing on,’ she murmured. ‘I must see what those lazy workmen are doing!’

Agrippina’s story about Volusus haunted me for the rest of that week. Nero might be Emperor of Rome but she had him in her power. She could, if she wished, strike hard and deep but she had lost the will. Perhaps something in that tangled mind of hers had cried ‘Enough!’.

The subject of a possible rapprochement with Nero dominated the conversation of the household. Agrippina, the consummate actress, played along with them. Members of Nero’s entourage visited the villa bringing tokens and gifts, which Agrippina seized eagerly, listening attentively to the news of her son. But, after that conversation with her in the garden, I saw it all through different eyes.

There was also talk of a great banquet. I wondered if the monster was preparing something spectacular: he was so good at hosting parties. On one notorious occasion, the guests were invited into a triclinium painted completely black. The walls, the floors, the ceiling, the tables, even the glass and silverware, were all as black as night. The chairs and couches were carved in the form of funeral slabs lit by those little lamps you see hanging above a tomb. Every dish, somehow or other, was tinted black. Negro boys, naked as they were born, served the meals. You can imagine the terror of the guests, who had been promised a supper party to remember. But Nero let them all return home unscathed. From what I could gather most of them were in a state of near collapse but he had kept his promise; they would never forget that supper party for as long as they lived!

Such horror stories, coupled with Agrippina’s fears, alarmed me. One morning, as she swam in the villa’s pool, I stood on the edge watching her beautiful body streak through the water, her skill and speed reminding me of a dolphin. I was giving her my usual lecture on the need for prudence.

‘You should come in!’ Agrippina called out, ignoring all my pleas for caution with her son. She stood naked on the far side of the pool, the water pouring off her.

‘I prefer watching you,’ I called.

‘A legacy from Caligula,’ she shouted. ‘When you are exiled to an island, the only way to get off is to swim around it.’

Callienus appeared. He had been ill with a fever. He sat on a stone seat, cradling a cup in his hands and stared mournfully at his mistress.

‘Don’t drink too much!’ Agrippina called. ‘You’ve got duties tonight.’

She winked at me and disappeared again beneath the water.

‘I’ll drink what I bloody well want!’ Callienus growled.

I ignored him. He was a good-looking Greek actor, but his pretty face was always spoilt by a scowl. Agrippina left the pool. She dried off and quickly dressed. Acerronia came out, complaining about the workmen. Agrippina, drying her hair, half-listened, more interested in finding out what we were eating that night.

‘Piglet cooked in honey,’ Acerronia replied. ‘I’ve found some quite old Falernian in your cellars.’ She stomped off.

‘Isn’t it strange?’ Agrippina mused.

‘What is?’

I had come round the pool, but Callienus had slunk away. Agrippina was always lecturing him about how much he drank.

‘I’d forgotten about that wine. I bought it from a vineyard owner who used to live nearby. He was a strange man, who kept lambs in his house.’

‘When did you buy the wine?’ I asked.

‘Ah, it was when I was courting Claudius. We came here for one of our pleasant little weekends. He did like his wine.’ She grinned. ‘Almost as much as mushrooms!’

Now, I don’t believe in portents but at that moment something strange happened. An owl flew across the garden chased by other birds. I shivered and touched the tip of my penis for luck. Agrippina watched the harassed bird seek shelter in a line of trees.

‘Approaching death,’ she remarked. ‘Isn’t an owl in daylight a harbinger of impending doom?’

It was as if the sun had slipped behind a cloud. Looking back, of course, I realise that owl was no natural occurrence: one of Nero’s spies must have been nearby with the poor bird in a cage, and released it at that moment. I joked and tried to pass it off but Agrippina remained tense and watchful.

The incident marred the atmosphere at supper. Agrippina drank too much and indulged in a heated argument with Callienus. There was nothing that little bum boy liked more than flouncing off and he did so now in style.

‘Let him go.’ Agrippina made a gesture. ‘I’m tired of his scowling face. Now, let me tell you about Tiberius. Do you know he used to swim on Capri with little boys who had been trained to nibble at him from under water?’

Acerronia burst out laughing. Agrippina ordered the lights to be doused. As the servants had been dismissed, I was engaged in this task when I heard a terrible crash.

Agrippina’s bedchamber was at the back of the villa. It was a small annexe built on the corner and flanked on either side by a two-storeyed building. She never really told me the reason why she had chosen this chamber. Most people like to sleep on the roof. Agrippina, however, always preferred to shelter at the rear of the villa on the ground floor. This bedchamber had been specially built, with a ceiling made of slats of wood, not like some fence, but fashioned out of the best cedars of Lebanon with small gaps between so you could glimpse the moon and the stars. Agrippina was a devotee of the moon: she loved its light and, in the fourth quarter when it was full and strong, would often sit and study it.

Well, by the time I reached that bedchamber, the roof had gone, and Callienus with it. The roof had collapsed, crushing the bed and the Greek under a mass of fallen timbers and rubble. Agrippina and Acerronia joined me. The noise had roused the rest of the villa, and lamps and torches were brought. Some of the slaves became hysterical, but Agrippina remained calm. She wrapped a cloak about her and just stood in the doorway, staring at the masonry which had buried her lover.

The following morning I investigated the ‘accident’. It would appear that the builders on either side of the bedchamber had piled up masonry on the flat roofs. For some unknown reason this had slipped and fallen, bringing down the timber ceiling to crush Callienus to pulp. The Greek certainly lost all his looks and beauty. A piece of timber had smashed his head as easily as it would a nut. Another had crushed his legs. Agrippina ordered his mangled remains to be sheeted and the corpse was taken down to the beach. A makeshift funeral pyre was hastily assembled and drenched with oil. Agrippina herself took the torch and set it ablaze. She made the libation and muttered the prayer. The sea breeze caught the flames and soon reduced it all to ash. Afterwards Agrippina refused to leave. She dismissed the slaves but asked me to stay.

‘Was it an accident, Parmenon?’

‘No, Domina. Some of the workmen have disappeared. Oh, there was some rubble left on the roof but not enough to cause such damage. I checked the ceiling joists.’

‘And?’

‘The beams had been weakened and the clasps broken. I would guess five or six men climbed on the roof during the night, probably carrying sheetloads of rubble, though it was the beams which killed poor Callienus.’

‘The rubble was tossed on?’

‘Yes, Domina. The beams simply fell in. With a drop of over three yards, Callienus didn’t stand a chance.’

‘Who ordered this?’

‘You know who,’ I whispered. ‘Domina, you are in the arena, but your opponents have struck first. The scene was well prepared: the portent of the owl in the afternoon, followed by an unfortunate accident. The assassins glimpsed Callienus’s lamp, and no doubt thought that you and he had retired for the night. .’

Agrippina held her hand up. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

She walked down to the funeral pyre. I thought she was going to say a few more words, but she went round it and stood at the edge of the sea, allowing the water to lap about her sandalled feet. Above her the sea birds called. I followed but stood behind, and watched her shoulders shake; one of the few times in her life that I saw Domina Agrippina, daughter of Germanicus, truly weep.

‘Don’t you hear them, Parmenon?’

‘Domina, it’s only the sea birds.’

‘No, Parmenon.’ She turned, wiping the tears from her cheeks. ‘The ghosts are calling my name!’