Domina

Chapter 11

Agrippina made the two Germans take a similar oath of loyalty to myself, a macabre ceremony carried out by torch and candlelight. The two Germans ate bread and salt and swore their loyalty by earth, sea and sky. When this makeshift ceremony was over, Agrippina ordered me to follow her down into the cellars of the house; a place I seldom visited, with its warren of galleries and passageways. Agrippina led us to a heavy reinforced door at the end of a corridor. Castor opened it and stepped inside. I sensed someone else was there; there was a moan, a clink of chain. Torches were lit and I gazed upon Progeones, manacled to the wall. Agrippina’s torturers had taken his eyes out, leaving nothing but black, bloody sockets.

‘Here he is,’ Agrippina mocked. ‘The man who carried Caligula’s execution list and had the temerity to betray me.’ She leaned closer and whispered in the man’s battered ear. ‘Well, Progeones, do you want to die?’

He groaned and nodded. He didn’t know who I was, having lost all sense of reality. A man in such pain looks forward only to death.

Agrippina studied his face once more then left. She never mentioned him again but I discovered later that the Germans took him out into the countryside and buried him alive.

The horrors of that night were not yet over. Agrippina had the rest of her retinue summoned. We shared a litter and, preceded by torch-bearers, were taken along winding roads and alleyways to the Lamian Gardens on the Esquiline. It was a haunting, forbidding place, bathed only in the light of a pale moon. Agrippina didn’t say anything as she led us across the lawns to the edge of a secluded cypress grove. Here, the Germans, who were usually frightened of nothing, refused to go any further. Their fear and panic spread to the rest of the retinue. Agrippina berated them but they just stared back and refused to take a step further. She snatched a torch, cursed in exasperation and led me on.

The glade was circular, as if man-made, fringed by the dark cypress trees, totally deserted except for a few rocks piled in the middle. Agrippina paused at these. I do not have a fanciful imagination but the longer I stood there, the heavier weighed the silence: oppressive, no sound at all, no night bird, no rustling in the grass, not even the slightest breeze stirred those trees. It was as if we were studying a mural or a painting. Agrippina was pale-faced, her hand shaking so much I had to take the torch. I followed her gaze. A mist, or what looked like a mist, snaked out from the trees, creeping across the grass. When it reached the rocks it began to rise. I experienced a nameless terror, a panic as if someone was quietly menacing me with unseen horrors. Agrippina began to speak. She was invoking protection against the powers of darkness. I pressed her shoulder, and found it ice-cold. A sound came from the mist, like a rustling on the breeze, before a harsh guttural voice spoke.

May the Gods be my witness: my heart chilled, my bowels and my stomach curdled with fear. Caligula! The dead Emperor’s ghost had risen from his grave. He was standing behind me whispering in my ear, those same awful sounds he had made when talking to himself. The glade assumed a horror all of its own. A shadow seemed to race across yet there was little light from the moon, and our torches spluttered weakly. A place of hideous terror.

‘This is Caligula’s grave, isn’t it?’ I asked.

‘It is,’ Agrippina answered. ‘The stories are all over Rome, of how this place is haunted by demons.’ She glanced at me, eyes beseeching. ‘He comes to me, Parmenon, in the dark watches of the night. I see his blood-spattered face and he begs me for burial.’ She paused. ‘I have tried to arrange it but no one will help me.’

I summoned my courage and did what she asked. Hoes and mattocks lay about, dropped by slaves who’d attempted the task only to flee. I removed the rocks and dug at the soft soil beneath. I soon disinterred the corpse, which was wrapped in soiled, dirty sheets. Partly cremated, the fire had at least cleansed and purified the remains. The face was indistinct, obliterated by dark scorch marks, although it was easy to recognise the shape of the head and that monstrous tuft of hair on the nape of the neck which had not been touched. Agrippina’s bodyguard recovered their courage and, urged on, they collected dry kindling. I hardly looked at what I carried but laid it on the ground and helped the others build the makeshift funeral pyre, before placing the corpse on top. Agrippina murmured a few prayers and coated both cadaver and wood with the contents of an amphora of oil. A torch was brought and then all that remained of Caligula, friend of the Gods, was consumed by fire.

Agrippina never mentioned her brother’s funeral again. She returned to our house and continued the role of the noble recluse. She settled down to the life of a peace-loving matron, totally devoted to her son, ever ready to entertain the Emperor with lectures, masques and declamations, most of them connected with Rome’s history. She and Messalina watched each other like sparring leopards. If the Emperor couldn’t come, Agrippina entertained his freedmen, Narcissus and Pallas, powerful officials in charge of the treasury, the courts and access to the Emperor.

I accompanied her everywhere. Agrippina never referred to the Emperor, the court or contemporary politics, even when Claudius began the usual purge of the Senate and settled grudges with those who had insulted and belittled him over the years.

In the February following his accession, Messalina gave birth to a puny boy who was promptly named Britannicus. Agrippina played the kind kinswoman, sending gifts to both parents as well as to the child. She hid her rage and resentment well. She stalked Messalina like a feral cat would its prey, but never once did she show her claws. Instead, she fought her battles through her sister Julia who, with her beauty and wild, wanton ways, had soon become the toast of elegant Roman society.

Agrippina quietly urged Julia on. She introduced her sister to the one man whose mind Agrippina admired: our noble Spanish philosopher and financier, Annaeus Seneca. I never really found out why Agrippina admired that man so much.

‘It might have been he who betrayed us to Caligula, remember?’ I warned.

Agrippina shook her head. ‘That traitor’s still alive!’

‘What? Afer the orator?’

‘That traitor is still alive!’ she repeated, eyes widening.

She was, of course, referring to old Claudius.

She pressed a finger against my lips. ‘In time, Parmenon, in time all debts are settled!’

I was still concerned about Seneca. He’d returned from exile, more cunning and vindictive than ever. He was also an arrant hypocrite. He wrote treatises on youth and on old age and composed eloquent reflections on man’s destiny. He preached poverty and austerity, and yet he relished the comforts of high society. He claimed to despise wealth but was as shrewd an investor as any banker.

Agrippina discussed philosophical matters with him, sharpening her mind, preparing herself for further debates with Claudius. She also made no attempt to disguise her ambition for Seneca to become her beloved Nero’s tutor. Agrippina played a clever, subtle game, or thought she did. She wined and dined Seneca, laughed at his witticisms, flattered his overweening ego but refused any dalliance. Instead, Julia her sister was discreetly put forward as the philosopher’s possible mistress. They became regular visitors to the court, the favoured guests who had to be invited to any important banquet or supper party.

‘I know what you are doing,’ I challenged Agrippina one evening after the couple had left.

‘Do you, Parmenon?’ she replied. ‘I love my sister.’

‘No, you don’t. You love only one person, Domina — your son.’

She refused to hold my gaze but walked back to a side table and poured a goblet of wine.

‘Have you heard the rumours?’ I asked.

‘Oh, don’t tell me that Messalina’s pregnant again!’

‘No, Domina, Messalina is watching you.’

‘And?’

‘Be careful, you can provoke her too far!’

Agrippina refused to heed the warning. She continued to entertain and flatter Claudius as well as encourage her sister to become the leading light of Roman society. Messalina decided enough was enough and struck. One night I was awoken by the sound of crashing and screaming and the clash of swords. I left my bedchamber, a sheet wrapped round me, and fled down the passageways and galleries. The rest of the household had already been disturbed. The sounds were coming from the far end of the house where Agrippina and her son had their bedchamber. Both were safe but Castor and Pollux paid for their brave defence of their mistress and her son with their lives. Castor was already dead, with a terrible gaping wound to his neck. Pollux, who had fought on single-handedly against the intruders, was a mess of blood and gore from head to toe. Before the intruders had fled, he had taken a thrust to the stomach. When I reached them, Agrippina was already bending over him, listening to his harsh, guttural whispers. Agrippina got to her feet, whispered to a servant who stepped forward and quickly cut the German’s throat. I had both corpses removed and sent out armed retainers to search for the intruders. They followed the trail of blood to the wall but returned empty-handed.

Agrippina was beside herself with fury. She moved her frightened son to another heavily guarded chamber and met me in her writing office. She reminded me of a raging lioness, pacing up and down, furious at the attack on her son. Only gradually did I get the details from her. She and Nero retired late, and as usual Castor and Pollux stood guard over both chambers. She had suspected nothing until woken by cries and the clash of swords. The Germans had apparently drawn the bolts on the outside of each door, a shrewd move as it prevented Agrippina or her son panicking — if they’d tried to flee their chambers, they would have run straight on to the swords of the assassins. Both Germans had fought bravely until the rest of the house had been aroused and the attackers fled, dragging their dead and wounded comrades with them.

‘How many?’ I asked.

Agrippina stopped her pacing and gestured with her hands.

‘Pollux told me there were at least ten, all masked and hooded.’ She continued, ‘Before he asked me to put him out of his agony, Pollux claimed at least half of them were either killed or wounded.’

‘It will be passed off as housebreaking,’ I replied. ‘A gang of thieves trying their luck.’

‘Housebreakers don’t move in groups of ten,’ Agrippina snapped. ‘And they don’t like cold steel. These men knew where to come and what they were after: Nero and myself.’

‘Messalina?’ I asked.

‘That bitch,’ Agrippina agreed. ‘Only someone wealthy could hire so many men, and give such precise instructions on what to do.’

‘You are safe,’ I replied. ‘Your son is unharmed. You can appeal to the Emperor.’ I spoke flatteringly.

Agrippina dismissed my words with a flick of her fingers. ‘I must think. I must plot!’ she declared and she was gone.

Agrippina was given little choice to do either. Messalina struck again, ruthlessly and to the point. The household slept late that morning until it was roused by messengers; informing Agrippina that both her sister Julia and the philosopher Seneca had been arrested for adultery, public lewdness, conspiracy and possible treason. If I hadn’t stopped her, Agrippina would have left immediately for the Palatine.

‘There’s nothing you can do,’ I urged.

Agrippina was fighting hard to control her temper. She had dismissed the stewards and the others waiting for her to carry out the funeral rites of the two Germans.

‘See to the funeral pyres,’ I urged. ‘Pack your bags and then clear your house. We’ll load the carts and leave Rome.’

Agrippina leaned forward, gripping the sides of the table as if the house was shaking.

‘Leave?’ she whispered. ‘Like some beaten dog?’

‘What can you do?’ I retorted. ‘Trot along and see Uncle Claudius? Tell him that his beloved wife tried to kill your son? You know what Claudius is like, he’ll dither about asking for evidence and Messalina will pounce. She’ll rope you in with your sister! Two of a kind, she’ll cry.’ I clutched her arm. ‘Or you can even be more stupid: go to the Emperor and defend your sister, tell Claudius that Julia is innocent of any charge. Do that,’ I warned, ‘and, by the end of the month, you and Nero will be no more.’

At first, Agrippina wouldn’t listen and let loose the most terrible rage. She strode up and down, knocking goblets, vases, statuettes onto the floor, slashing at cushions with a small knife, kicking over stools. At last her rage subsided, and she slumped onto a couch, face in her hands.

‘I’m thinking, Parmenon. Before you start boring me with your advice, I’m thinking.’ She took away her hands. ‘We’ll give the Germans honourable burial, and meanwhile tell my steward and chamberlains to pack, and load the carts. We’ll be gone from Rome within the day. I’ll send a message to Claudius protesting my innocence and saying how shocked I am by my sister’s actions.’

I smiled in agreement. Agrippina turned her head and glanced sideways at me.

‘But, one day, Parmenon, I’ll return!’

‘One day,’ I repeated.

Agrippina pointed to the door. ‘Leave me. Let no one come in.’

Agrippina kept to her word, except in one small detail: we stayed in Rome a further day to hear the verdict passed against Julia and Seneca. Both were exiled: Seneca, with all his stomach and liver troubles, to Corsica; Julia, that beautiful butterfly, was despatched to Pontia. Messalina showed her little mercy — within weeks the island was visited by Praetorian guards and soon afterwards we heard of Julia’s death.

Agrippina retreated to her villa at Antium with its flowery grottoes and shady colonnaded walks. She returned to her studies, corresponded with friends and entertained. She taught Nero how to swim and fish. She gave up pottery but took an active interest in gardening, in particular the development of certain poisons. She tested and preserved these before developing antidotes. She hired physicians, leeches and apothecaries, who would comment on the properties of certain substances and plants. Agrippina was a keen student. At the same time, she was careful not to be seen as posing a threat to anyone in Rome.

‘It’s not enough,’ she declared one morning, ‘for me to hide here, Parmenon. Messalina must be distracted. She must think I’m safe, comfortable and well away from the court.’ She picked up a hand mirror and studied her olive-skinned face. ‘I’m twenty-six years of age,’ she stated. ‘Do you know, Parmenon, it’s time I married. Oh no, not to a prince of the blood or a victorious general. I have chosen my man: he’s very rich, very witty and will keep me amused.’

The lucky, or unlucky, man, depending on your perspective, was Passienus Crispus, a constant visitor to Agrippina’s villa and a former friend of her brother Caligula. In his heyday, Passienus had been a great orator with a sharp wit. He was also very wealthy, owning property at Tusculum, in Rome and elsewhere. A small, balding man, Passienus’s tart observations on life caused merriment without provoking hostility. An old dowager of Rome once alleged he’d accused her of buying old shoes.

‘I didn’t say you bought them,’ Passienus replied. ‘I said you sold them.’

The remark caused bellows of laughter throughout the city and the dowager dared not show her face for months. Even Tiberius and Caligula met their match with this court jester; they took no offence when Passienus said of them: ‘Never did such a good slave have such a bad master!’

Caligula used to love teasing him. One day he questioned Passenius on the orator’s romantic liaison with his beloved sister Drusilla.

‘Have you slept with her?’ Caligula demanded.

Anybody else would have fainted away. To have said ‘No’ could be taken as an insult to her beauty; to say ‘Yes’ could be construed as treason. Passienus, however, just hitched his toga up and calmly replied, ‘Not yet, your Excellency.’

Caligula hooted with laughter, and pounded Passienus on the back. He kept repeating the remark to himself for days, a constant source of chuckling amusement. Passienus had always been Agrippina’s friend, lending her money, attending her banquets, one of the few men who could genuinely make her laugh. In his role as court jester, I suspect, he had secretly used his influence and wealth to advance Agrippina’s cause in Rome. Messalina would see him as no threat. Agrippina and Passienus were allowed to settle down into quiet, boring nuptial bliss.

Passienus was overwhelmed, flattered to be a kinsman, a member of the imperial family. Agrippina wove her web around him. Once, under the influence of wine, Passienus cheerfully admitted to me that Agrippina was a marvellous lover: energetic and enthusiastic in bed sports. I told him to keep such opinions to himself. He was a likeable, cheerful rogue, thirty years Agrippina’s senior, and he soon settled into his role as her companion and protector. She used him as she used every man. Passienus had a finger in many pies and he had the wealth to finance an army of informers. Nonetheless, Agrippina kept well away from Rome, staying at Antium or travelling north to Tusculum. She never spoke to me of her relationship with Passienus. She was absorbed with Nero as well as listening carefully to whatever news Passienus brought from the city.

Within four years of the marriage, Passienus began to suffer the effects of dropsy. I happened to remind her that her first husband, Domitius, had suffered from the same ailment.

‘It’s quite common,’ Agrippina evenly replied, ‘in men of that age group, of a certain social class. I am doing all I can to help.’

Passienus became a shadow of his former self, more subdued and withdrawn, as if concentrating on a problem to which the solution constantly evaded him. More and more Agrippina took over their affairs. I noticed that Passienus had little love for Nero and the boy responded in kind.

Nero was developing into a sturdy, copper-headed dumpling, with thick lips, a podgy nose and striking blue eyes, which he would constantly screw up as if short-sighted. A clever boy who learnt his lessons quickly, Nero was also a consummate actor. He loved singing or dancing, and composing his own poetry and every visitor to his mother’s household was always entertained by Nero’s childish songs, poems or performance in some play. He was a creditable athlete, graceful at running and swimming, and with no fear of horses. Acting, however, was his great passion — that and his mother. Perhaps their separation in his early years had created an insatiable hunger for her presence. He clung to her and she responded, allowing him to share her bed as protection against his constant nightmares. Even when Passienus joined her, Nero slept on a couch in the same room. One morning I heard Passienus arguing with Agrippina about it — he never protested again.

As Nero grew older, I became more interested in the little monster. I would often find him crouching by Agrippina’s door, listening or peering through the keyhole. The servants and slaves gave him the run of the villa, treating him with fawning adoration. Of course there were also whispers and gossip about their relationship. One maid made the mistake of telling others that she had seen Nero wearing his mother’s clothes. Within a day she disappeared and was never seen again.

Passienus avoided the boy as much as he could. I once heard him refer to Nero as ‘that little horror’ but generally he had the sense to keep such sentiments to himself. I didn’t like Nero’s cloying sweetness, the mock adoration in those chilling blue eyes as he questioned me, particularly about his mother and the activities of Uncle Caligula. I tried to answer as tactfully as possible. Nero had a sharp mind and keen wit, and would pester me until he was satisfied.

Agrippina still used me to send messages into the city.

‘You are nondescript, Parmenon,’ she declared. ‘You can enter rooms and stand silently without being noticed. You are a born spy.’

I baulked at the insult but she threw her arms round my neck and kissed me on the lips. ‘Not my spy,’ she murmured. ‘More my shadow.’

I never knew exactly what I took into Rome, letters hidden away in a flask of wine, coded messages which only the recipient could understand. I would collect the gossip and the scandal, scooping it up like a fisherman would a catch in his net, and bring it all back to Agrippina. I told her how the Lamian Gardens were still haunted by Caligula’s ghost, whilst the same eerie phenomenon had been experienced in the place where he’d been assassinated. Nero overhead this, absorbing every detail avidly. Of course, he questioned me closely later and made me repeat all the ghastly stories.

On one beautiful afternoon at Tusculum, a slave reported that one of the hanging cages in the garden had been forced and the songbird was missing. Usually, a chamberlain or steward would have dealt with such a matter but they were all enjoying a wine-soaked siesta. I decided to take care of the problem myself. I inspected the cage, became intrigued and went deeper into the garden, where I heard a childish voice chanting in the bushes. I quietly moved these apart, to see Nero kneeling inside. His body shielded a small rock, a makeshift altar on which the songbird had been sacrificed. The bird had been slit from throat to crotch, its innards spilt out in a bloody mess. Nero had dipped his fingers into the blood and daubed his face as if he was a priest.

‘What are you doing?’ I demanded.

‘I am performing a sacrifice.’

‘For what?’

‘For nothing, silly!’ Nero retorted. ‘I’m sacrificing to Uncle Caligula. When he comes to me, I talk to him.’

Despite the sunlight and the warmth, my skin crawled and my hands turned clammy. It wasn’t just the sacrifice, the destruction of a beautiful bird, but those clear blue eyes looking at me so earnestly and Nero’s aimless chatter, so reminiscent of Caligula.

‘Uncle is a God,’ Nero pressed the point. ‘And I am his nephew. It is right to make pious sacrifice.’

He was only eight years old but he talked and looked like a seasoned conspirator. I started to withdraw but he sprang to his feet. He grasped my wrist, digging his nails deeply into my skin.

‘It’s our secret, isn’t it, Parmenon? Just between you and me. You won’t tell Mother?’

‘I won’t tell Mother,’ I promised.

‘That’s good,’ the little horror replied. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve done this you know, Parmenon. Uncle tells me everything. He sends his regards.’ His face creased into a smile. ‘Now you may go and I’ll finish the rite.’

I never did tell Agrippina: I was too frightened to do so. In her eyes, Nero could do no wrong. In those heady, conspiratorial days, as Agrippina spun her web, no one was safe. Much as she loved me, much as she needed me, I, too, could become an offering on the altar to her adorable son.

Six years in all passed, slipping away like a dream. Sometimes I tried to live my own life: I’d meet a pretty face, I’d invest a little money. I was planning to buy my own farm but remorselessly Agrippina drew me back. I had no choice; I danced like a moth round the alluring flame. Agrippina used me more and more as her messenger to Rome.

‘Concentrate on Claudius,’ she warned, ‘and that glorious bitch of his.’

I did so. There were plenty of people ready to tell their tales. Claudius had won some respect, being more restrained and less bloodthirsty than his predecessor. However, his growing eccentricity was a constant theme at dinner conversations. Claudius liked the old ways and he fancied himself as a great judge or lawyer. He would often sit in the courts to hear and arbitrate on cases. Sometimes he proved himself a tyrant, at other times he’d allow the lawyers to insult him. One little Greek, frustrated by Claudius’s refusal to give him a fair hearing, hurled a wax tablet across the court, striking Claudius on the face.

‘As for you!’ the Greek screamed. ‘You are not Caesar, you’re just a silly, old man!’

Claudius dabbed at the cut, and allowed the Greek to have his say and leave without being punished. At other times Claudius would become involved in the day-to-day lives of his subjects. He began a campaign against ostentation, which he initiated by buying a beautiful silver chariot and having it smashed to pieces in front of a crowd of onlookers. Or he would issue edicts such as: ‘Yew juice is a sovereign remedy against snake bite’, or, ‘breaking wind at table is not a breach of etiquette’. I think the latter was to excuse his own lack of personal hygiene.

Claudius loved to stage games and pronounced that any gladiator who pretended not to fight well would have his throat cut. Sometimes he would bandy words with the mob or even with the gladiators themselves. On one occasion, during the draining of the Fucine Lake, Claudius decided to stage a mock naval battle. It was the usual nonsense: two triremes, each manned by a team of gladiators, would crash together and the crowd would be treated to a sea battle. Just before the games began the gladiators, as was customary, paraded in front of the imperial box and gave the ritual salute.

‘Hail, Caesar! We, who are about to die, salute you!’

‘Or not die, as the case may be!’ Claudius retorted.

The gladiators thought he was pardoning them, granting them life, so they put down their weapons and refused to fight. The crowd was treated to the spectacle of their Emperor having to climb into the arena and bribe both sides to continue.

Agrippina was most interested in Claudius’s relationship with Messalina. She listened avidly to the tales of her rival’s amorous exploits whilst Claudius was growing more and more puritanical. He banned prostitutes from Rome. When he discovered that the husband of his elder daughter, Antonia, was more interested in pretty boys, Claudius sent soldiers to his house: they caught the miscreant in bed with one of his lovers and promptly stabbed both to death.

Nevertheless, I warned Agrippina that Messalina’s influence over Claudius did not appear to be waning. She was ruthless and sly in exploiting her husband’s fears and growing superstition. One day as Claudius entered her court, a litigant came running up and begged for an audience.

‘Your Excellency,’ he fawned. ‘Take care this day, for I dreamt you were assassinated.’

Claudius, of course, was full of concern and begged the man to describe the would-be assassin: the cunning litigant turned and pointed to his rival waiting in the court. Claudius was taken in by this nonsense and the poor victim was immediately hustled away and executed on a fictitious charge of treason. Messalina was equally successful in using the same method to despatch a senator she hated. One morning Narcissus, the powerful freedman, burst into the Emperor’s bedchamber. Sweaty and stricken, he threw himself on his knees and told the Emperor of his dream in which Messalina’s hated senator had forced his way into the palace and stabbed Claudius to death.

‘I have dreamt a similar dream,’ Messalina divulged.

Claudius heard them out, not yet fully believing, until a chamberlain promptly arrived to say that the very same senator — whom of course Messalina had secretly invited to the palace — had tried to force his way into the imperial chambers. It was confirmation enough for Claudius: orders were issued and, by noon, the senator concerned was forced to take his own life.

Agrippina listened to this story and asked me to repeat it several times.

‘A clever ruse,’ she murmured. ‘A very clever ruse. If only poor Passienus was better, I’d travel to Rome myself to see what was happening.’

Poor Passienus was by now in a terrible way. His mind was wandering and, for some strange reason, he had fallen in love with a beech tree in his garden at Tusculum. He would embrace the trunk and kiss it, ordering his slaves to water the tree only with the finest wine from his cellars. He would sit and talk to it and sleep in its shade, and, late one afternoon, he died there. Agrippina mourned dutifully, and then had the body cremated and buried in the family tomb on the Appian Way. Once the funeral was over, Agrippina announced it was time for her to return to Rome.