Domina

Chapter 10

It was good to be back in Rome. Despite the winter, the taverns were crowded as usual. After the silence of Pontia, I enjoyed walking through the different quarters watching the barbers shave their customers in the middle of the street, the loud-mouthed hawkers selling their small boxes of sulphur matches and trinkets, the raucous cries of the sausage-sellers with their makeshift mobile ovens. Schoolmasters, ringed by their pupils in a small, dirty square, shouted themselves hoarse. Nearby, a money-changer sifted his coins in a metal grille whilst his assistant pounded with a shiny mallet on clipped and chipped coins. Conjurors and tricksters swarmed everywhere, competing with the beggars. The sheer frenetic bustle of their lives was a sharp contrast to the horrors of Caligula’s court or Agrippina’s seething anger as she plotted her return.

I lodged with Cassius Chaerea in the Praetorian barracks near the Viminial Gate. Of course, I had to be presented to the Emperor, and was obliged to attend one of his famous supper parties in Livia’s old palace. Caligula was, as usual, lounging on a couch. He seemed taller and thinner, his face had assumed a skull-like look, hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked. He was nearly bald except for an incongruous tuft of hair which rested on the nape of his neck. He looked me up and down. I was obliged to kneel and kiss his slippered foot.

‘How is my darling sister?’ he lisped. ‘I often think of her.’ He repeated his ominous threat, ‘And, when you return, Parmenon, remind her I have daggers as well as islands!’

Chaerea had informed me that Caligula had banished many of his enemies and, on a mere whim, sent executioners to hunt them down and forced them to take their own lives. If they refused, they were cruelly butchered.

‘Well, get up! Get up!’ Caligula waved his hand airily. ‘I have to retire.’

I took my place on the couches which were arranged in a horseshoe around the Emperor’s which stood on a raised dais. The mood was one of sheer terror. No one dared eat without the Emperor’s permission and everyone was petrified of catching his eye. The Emperor withdrew, and when he returned, he was dressed as a woman in a beautiful silk gown, with a veil over his balding head. He wore artificial green finger- and toenails. He didn’t take a seat but clapped his hands and the musicians struck up the tune of a well-known Syracusan dance. The Gods be my witness, we had to sit and watch as the Emperor of Rome danced and cavorted as if he were a tumbler from Antioch. Of course, at the end, the applause was deafening. Caligula, still in his female clothes, returned to his couch, sharing it with an actor who was under strict instructions to treat the Emperor as if he was a woman.

I was forced to remain in court for the next few days. The Emperor lived in a world of his own. He often made public appearances in a woman’s cloak covered with embroidery and precious stones. Or, in sharp contrast, he’d wear the famous military boots which gave him his nick-name. He had an artificial golden beard which he would fasten to his face and carry a thunder-bolt trident or serpentine staff as he pretended to be Jupiter or Apollo. On occasions he’d disport himself as Venus, which was truly dangerous: with his bony shoulders and spindly legs, it was difficult not to laugh out loud.

Caligula’s only link with sanity seemed to be his love of chariot racing but even here his madness had eventually manifested itself. He fell in love with his own horse Incitatus and built him a marble stable with an ivory stall, purple blankets and jewelled harness. Before a race the entire neighbourhood around the imperial stable was put under armed guard, and sentence of death was passed on anyone who disturbed his horse. The charioteers were divided into different factions, with an intense rivalry between the ‘Blues’ and ‘Greens’. Caligula supported the ‘Greens’. Woe betide any charioteer from an opposing faction who threatened the Emperor’s favourites — they could expect either themselves, or their horses, to be poisoned. No wonder Rome seethed with unrest.

At first I was left alone by the conspirators. Caligula had me watched but, as the New Year came and went, dismissed me as a nonentity; he was more interested in the games and festivities planned for the end of the month. I was left to my own devices. I went out to the Via Sacre and visited the baby Nero. He was, as Agrippina had described him, a bouncing, unruly, little boy with bulbous blue eyes and a shock of red-coppery hair. Even then he was a born actor. I had to sit with his guardians while the little fellow sang and danced. I don’t believe in premonitions, yet, as I watched the child, I kept thinking of the monster on the Palatine. For the first time in my life, I quietly prayed that Agrippina had chosen the right course for her son. The aged aunt who looked after the boy was a cold, austere, old woman with a face like vinegar.

Never once, she proudly informed me, had she reminded the boy of his mother.

I smiled thinly and assured her that Agrippina would never forget such a remark. I also called on Uncle Claudius in the library of the Senate house. His twisted face was unshaven, his tunic and toga soiled with dust and ink. He walked me up and down the rows of shelves, dragging his foot behind him, whilst delivering a lecture on the possible ancestors of the Divine Augustus. Round and round we went until I became dizzy. In a shadowy, dusty corner, he abruptly paused and sat down on a stool, mopping his face with the rag he kept up his sleeve.

‘Are you part of it?’ he asked. His eyes had lost that empty, vacuous look. His mouth was no longer slack, the jaw line seemed firmer, his voice free of any impediment. He spoke clearly and distinctly whilst those shrewd grey-green eyes studied me.

‘So, you are Agrippina’s man?’ he asked.

‘I am.’

He puckered his lower lip. ‘And are you one of them?’ he repeated.

‘One of what, sir?’ I asked.

‘You know full well,’ he teased. ‘Caligula is going to die, isn’t he? He’s obscene. He’s mad and his wickedness grows every day. At the moment, he’s absorbed in his games but soon he’ll lash out once more and his kin will feel his wrath. The signs are all there. The portents. .’

‘What portents, sir?’

Claudius sighed. ‘The Capitol has been struck by lightning,’ he explained. ‘As has the Palatine here in Rome. Sulla the soothsayer sent a message to the Emperor to be careful.’ Claudius’s eyes narrowed. ‘Caligula has been told to beware of a man called Cassius. But we don’t need the Gods, do we, Parmenon, to tell us there’s going to be a change?’ He made a rude sound with his lips. ‘Oh, don’t worry, we can relax here. Spies find it very difficult to listen to conversations in a library, they can’t openly eavesdrop; it’s the best place to plot a coup. Come on, man, are you part of it or not?’

‘Yes, sir, I am.’

Claudius rearranged his cloak round his shoulders.

‘Now listen carefully, young man. Agrippina is directing matters.’ He laughed at my surprise. ‘Oh, didn’t you know she’s been writing to me? Don’t be offended,’ he soothed. ‘Agrippina wouldn’t tell you lest you were captured and tortured. She wouldn’t use you as a messenger for the same reason. Caligula is to be killed and the best chance is as he leaves the games or the theatre. If we can separate him from his guards, the others will fulfil their task.’ He tapped his sandalled foot on the floor like a schoolmaster giving instruction. ‘Cassius Chaerea is a leading conspirator. Caligula still heaps insults on him: last night he made him kiss his little finger then waggled it in a most obscene manner. My only fear is that Chaerea may not be able to contain himself and strike before we are ready.’

‘Will you be involved?’ I taunted.

In answer Claudius got up and stood with his fingers to his lips as he examined scrolls on a shelf. He murmured to himself and plucked one down, greasy and stained with age.

‘Do you know what this is, Parmenon? It’s an account of Julius Caesar’s assassination. All those involved in his murder died violently themselves. I will not suffer a similar fate. I will act the frightened rabbit, and I suggest you do likewise. If, and when, the blow is struck, distance yourself. Ensure that the young Nero is safe and sound, and that I — ’ he smiled ‘- am discovered cowering in some apartment in the palace. If that’s done, all will be well. The rest,’ he spread his hands, ‘is in the lap of the Gods. Now, I’ve got manuscripts to file and you’ve murder to plot.’

He rose and shuffled away. I suppose with someone like Agrippina you learn something new every day. I had always regarded Claudius as a fool, but Agrippina thought otherwise. She had learnt her lesson and, like Uncle Claudius, would not show her hand. Cassius Chaerea was different: his hatred for the Emperor was now a consuming passion. After nightfall, when free of the Emperor’s spies, we met the other conspirators out in the gardens or shady groves where Cassius’s men could defend us. Other tribunes of the Praetorian Guard were drawn in: Papinius, Asiaticus, Clovinus Rufus an ex-consul, as well as senators such as Balbus. The password was ‘liberty’ and the day of the murder was chosen: 24 January, the last day of the Palatine Games.

The conspirators chose their place well. A makeshift amphitheatre had been erected in the Emperor’s palace, served by narrow galleries and passageways. The conspirators took oaths to either kill Caligula there or, if they failed, kill themselves. I became their shadow. The only person Agrippina had told me to take care of was Progeones, I had only glimpsed that awful little creature from afar. Progeones was now hated by everyone. He was regarded as Caligula’s dagger man and constantly carried a list of those the Emperor wished to condemn.

On the morning of the twenty-fourth, Cassius arranged that I join the Emperor in the imperial box at the games. Caligula was in good form, shouting, gesticulating, throwing coins at the mob. He espied me, called me over and clapped me on the shoulder.

‘I’ve had enough of your miserable face, Parmenon. It’s back to Pontia for you. Tell my bitch of a sister that I have been thinking about her more often than I should.’

I kissed the Emperor’s hand and withdrew. I glanced quickly at Progeones. He seemed nervous and ill at ease, and I wondered if he had a spy amongst the conspirators. Caligula then went to a makeshift altar and sacrificed a flamingo for good luck. When some of the blood splashed on his toga, he wiped it off and licked his fingers. He resumed his seat, now and again calling over a senator to kiss his slippered foot.

I glanced around. Chaerea, in full dress armour, tense as a bow string, stood next to the door clutching his sword. The strike had been planned for the end of the day, but the tension was already palpable. I left my seat and crossed to Chaerea.

‘It must be done now,’ I urged. ‘Progeones suspects something.’

Chaerea shook his head, his pallid face soaked in sweat. I glanced down the tier of seats. Castor and Pollux and other members of the German bodyguard now ringed the Emperor. The morning drew on. The fighters in the amphitheatre were lacklustre. Caligula, bored, climbed over the balustrade and into the arena, accompanied by Castor and Pollux. The Emperor grabbed a sword and showed one gladiator how to fight. His opponent, overcome with fear, fell to his knees and begged for mercy. The Emperor neighed with laughter and drove his sword deep into the man’s throat. Helped by his bodyguards, Caligula climbed back into the imperial box.

‘I am hungry!’ he shouted. ‘I want something to eat!’

He turned round and his eyes met mine, a cool, sane look. I’ve always wondered if Caligula knew he was going to die that day.

‘Parmenon!’ he shouted. ‘Join me. I have fresh messages for my sister.’

He shoved his guards aside and climbed the steps towards me. Castor and Pollux followed. For a while confusion reigned, as senators leapt up and wondered whether they should accompany the Emperor or not. Caligula took me by the arm and pushed me out. Chaerea and the others clustered by the doorway. There were a number of underground entrances, some for the crowd, others for the Emperor and his important guests. Caligula went towards one of the latter, and I seized my opportunity.

‘No, your Excellency, it is safer down here.’

Caligula didn’t object. He turned quickly and we went down a narrow passageway towards a pool of light. Footsteps echoed behind us. The Emperor thought it was his bodyguard: in fact it was Chaerea and the rest.

I heard shouts in German. The Emperor, alarmed, peered back through the gloom.

‘What is this?’ he exclaimed.

Chaerea’s sword was already drawn. I pushed the Emperor away from me. Caligula staggered back, his eyes rounded with terror. He lifted his hand to fend off the blow but Chaerea was too swift, and he sliced the Emperor between neck and shoulder. As the Emperor collapsed to his knees, a second blow slashed his jaw. Caligula gave a cry and collapsed on one side. The rest joined in, a melee of screams and shouts, daggers and swords rising and falling. The alarm had been raised, and the German bodyguard, led by Thracian officers, thronged down the passageway, shields up, swords out. In the confusion they had first chosen the wrong way. I glanced down. Caligula was dead, his corpse saturated in blood. Some of the conspirators chose to defend themselves as the Germans closed in. I decided to flee and was soon out in the sunlight, running back towards the city.

Rumours of the attack and the Emperor’s death had gone before me. The Palatine was all confusion, some people running towards the scene of the murder, others, with more sense, trying to put as much distance between them and the murder as possible. I stopped in the shadow of a statue to catch my breath. I wiped off the sweat and made sure there were no bloodstains on my clothing. If Agrippina was correct there would now be a bloodbath but the coup had been successful. Today Caligula learnt, too late, that he wasn’t a God.

Of course, the expected blood-letting followed. The German guards and their Thracian officers went on a senseless rampage. They took the heads of some of the conspirators and placed them as victory trophies on the altar of Augustus. They, in turn, were cut down by the Praetorians who hurried in from the camp. Chaerea escaped, though he spent time desecrating Caligula’s corpse, ripping his dagger through Caligula’s genitals.

Caligula’s friend, the Jewish king Herod Agrippa, intervened as the bloody fray drifted away from the Emperor’s corpse. Herod took the corpse to the Lamia Gardens on the Esquiline where he tried to arrange a funeral pyre. The confusion was so great that he gave up and interred the half-burnt corpse in a shallow grave. No one was able to protect Caligula’s wife, who threw herself on the outstretched sword of one of the tribunes, who had come for her. They then took her child Priscilla by the heel and dashed her brains against the wall.

Meanwhile the Senate, that group of old hypocrites, clustered like a gaggle of frightened geese, not in the Senate house but in the temple of Jupiter, to which they had also brought the city treasure. Protected by guards, they started the usual debate about restoring the Republic. It was a vain hope: both the army and the mob had far more to gain from supporting whoever was to be the next Emperor.

I had bribed certain guards to look after the young Nero and now went searching for Claudius, who, in the general chaos everyone had ignored. Looting had broken out in the palace, where slaves, soldiers and servants were helping themselves. I searched the library but found it empty. I then recalled where his mother’s chamber had been and discovered Claudius hiding behind a curtain.

‘Everything is going to plan,’ I assured him. ‘Agrippina’s son is safe but you have to assert yourself.’

Claudius was almost wetting himself with fright. It took two cups of wine before he stopped shaking. I grabbed him by the hand and bundled him down the steps.

A group of Praetorian officers were waiting, and greeted the old man as if he was a God incarnate. Claudius was immediately put into a litter and, protected by soldiers, taken down to the Praetorian camp outside the city gates. Once he was there, Claudius started to regain his nerve. In a clash of gleaming swords, their cloaks billowing out, the Praetorian Guard hailed Claudius as Emperor and Caesar. He stood shaking on the purple-draped rostrum but accepted their salutes and oaths of fealty. Slowly but surely the word spread. Clerks, secretaries, civil servants, and even a few senators joined Claudius. The Senate tried to negotiate, whilst Claudius prevaricated, dodging and swerving like an old fox. He pointed out that the army had already hailed him as Emperor. He had promised them a donative and he hoped the Senate would see sense and recognise him. They had no choice: Rome accepted him as Emperor. Two weeks later Claudius invited my mistress back to Rome. He treated her honourably, restored her possessions and, after executing those who had murdered Caligula, studiously ignored any reference to her or me.

Agrippina was delighted to see her son again. She was now twenty-five years of age. The different crises had created furrows in her olive-skinned face and silvery lines in the night-black hair but her eyes were still bright and vivacious. When she saw Nero, however, the years fell away. She picked him up and danced. For days afterwards, she wouldn’t let him out of her sight. She studied every inch of his little body and questioned him closely about what he liked, his favourite toys. At first he was shy and coy with her, but eventually they became inseparable. Domitia Lepida who looked after him during her exile was totally ignored. Agrippina would have liked to have torn her eyes out but Lepida was the mother of Messalina, that copper-haired, round-faced beauty who had the good fortune to be married to Claudius the Emperor.

Agrippina very rarely mentioned Messalina’s name, yet, I could tell, they were the deadliest enemies from the start. One day, shortly after her return, Agrippina asked me to comb her hair. She sat on a small stool in front of a silver sheen mirror. Young Nero sat at her feet, thumb in mouth, watching her with wide eyes.

‘I have learnt my lesson, Parmenon,’ Agrippina declared, studying her reflection closely.

‘In what way, Domina?’

‘To survive.’ She leaned down and rustled Nero’s hair. ‘And to wait.’

‘For what, Domina?’

‘Is the door closed?’ she asked.

‘You know it is, Mistress. You’ve chosen this room carefully, just like the one where we first met.’

‘I’ll tell you what I’ve planned,’ she murmured, so matter of fact you’d think she was choosing an ointment or a pot of paint for her face. ‘One day Nero will become Emperor, won’t you, my little child?’ She smiled beatifically at her son as he sat at her feet. ‘And I shall become Empress.’

I dropped the brush.

‘And you, Parmenon,’ she continued, ‘must not be so clumsy.’

‘And how will you achieve all this?’ I asked. ‘Ask Claudius to divorce Messalina and marry you?’

Agrippina pulled a face.

‘Messalina has already given birth to one child, a girl Octavia.’ I continued warningly.

‘So?’ She shrugged one shoulder. ‘I doubt if she is Claudius’s child.’ She bit her lip. ‘I mustn’t say that again.’

I gave her hair one hard brush and stood back. She caught my gaze in the mirror.

‘What is it, Parmenon?’ she whispered.

‘Haven’t you heard the news, Domina?’

She spun round on the stool. When she lost her temper, Agrippina’s face changed; it seemed to grow longer, harder, her high cheekbones more pronounced, the sensuous lips a mere pink, thin line. She could read my thoughts.

‘What is it, Parmenon?’ she demanded again.

‘Mama, Mama, what’s the matter?’ Nero jumped up and clutched at her leg.

Agrippina put an arm round his shoulder.

‘Hush, little one,’ she soothed. ‘I’ll take you into the garden. I’ve bought some new fish. Parmenon has something to tell me, haven’t you?’

My throat had gone dry. I had never seen Agrippina look so furious.

‘Rumours, Domina, mere gossip. That’s what you pay me to collect, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t pay you anything,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘You are mine, Parmenon, body and soul. I can see it in your eyes: Messalina is expecting another child, isn’t she?’

I agreed. ‘Her women are talking about her courses having stopped for two months in succession. They will take oaths that Claudius is the father. Messalina has already consulted the midwives and the auguries. She has been promised a fine boy.’

Agrippina didn’t move.

‘Did you hear me, Domina?’

She hugged Nero closer. ‘Get out!’ she ordered.

She had bitten the corner of her lips so savagely that a trickle of blood ran down her chin. ‘Get out and leave me alone!’

For the next few days I never saw Agrippina. She remained closeted in her apartment, sending to the kitchen for food for both herself and her son. Other people came and went: the legion of spies she had in the city; merchants; traders; tinkers; the occasional soldier from the Praetorian Guard. I knew it was best to leave her alone. I was also aware of visitors arriving late at night, of horsemen, soldiers in the garden below, pinpricks of light in the darkness, the rumbling wheels of a cart.

Eventually the crisis passed. Agrippina invited me back to her chamber, where she was sitting on the same stool. Her long, black hair was thrust behind her but her face bore no paint. She looked older, more severe.

‘I want you to brush my hair, Parmenon,’ she declared, ‘for the last time.’

My heart sank. I thought I was to be dismissed.

‘Brush it, feel it, smell its perfume. Go on!’

I picked up the brush from the ivory basket and obeyed. I held her hair to my face.

‘So,’ she said as if there had been no interruption in our conversation. ‘Messalina is expecting a brat?’ She sighed. ‘More obstacles eh, Parmenon? Someone else in the arena. I shall tell you what we’ll do!’

‘Yes, Domina.’

‘We’ll keep quiet and we’ll wait.’

I brushed Domina’s hair. It was the last time for many years.

From that day Agrippina transformed herself: she wore her hair tightly caught up as if she was a Roman matron. Her stola and dress would have been more appropriate for the fashion of the Republic than for the ostentatious finery of Claudius’s court. Her face went largely unpainted and rarely did I see jewellery around her throat or fingers. She also hired a tutor, that little turd Anicetus, who educated her in the history of Rome and the intricacies and subtleties of the Julio-Claudian family. I was fascinated. I had never seen such an actress. She was no longer the young, passionate, tempestuous Agrippina but a severe Roman matron. Her dinner parties became so conservative and boring I often fell asleep. Sometimes, rarely, she’d catch my eye and wink quickly. She invited her sister Julia more and more to her banquet evenings and afterwards they would stroll, arm-in-arm, around the gardens. Julia was very much like Drusilla: dark with a lush, sensuous body, provocative eye-catching gestures, and a twinkling laugh, but she was vapid and empty-headed. She soon fell under Agrippina’s sway, to whom she brought the gossip of the court and all the scandals of the city. Agrippina would sit, listen and nod wisely.

One evening Domina invited the Emperor Claudius to dine. Power, I suppose, changes people: Claudius could act the fool but he had soon proved himself to be shrewd and as ruthless as any of his predecessors — opposition both at home and abroad had been cruelly crushed. Agrippina welcomed him as her revered kinsman and led both Claudius and Messalina to the couch of honour. If Agrippina looked dowdy, Messalina was as brilliant as the sun in the heavens. She was not very tall but perfectly formed; just the way she walked made men’s heads turn. She had a round, doll-like face, a petite nose and full-lipped mouth, with strange dark-blue eyes offset by her red-gold hair. She wore more jewellery on one wrist than Agrippina had in her treasure coffers. She loved to dress herself in white. As she walked into the dining chamber, the light caught the jewellery at her throat and ears and she shimmered like some goddess appearing to mortals.

Agrippina courted her and tried to indulge her every whim. Claudius swallowed the bait whole, but Messalina suspected what Agrippina was plotting. Throughout the meal she drank little but listened with a sneer on her pretty face as Agrippina flattered Claudius and impressed him with her knowledge of Rome, its legends and customs. Claudius listened open-mouthed in admiration, until eventually he fell asleep as he always did. Messalina leaned across. She reminded me of how Helen of Troy must have looked: beautiful, treacherous and very, very dangerous.

‘I thank you,’ she lisped. ‘For the food, the wine, the company.’ She waved her hand airily in the direction of the musicians. ‘And I do admire your knowledge of Roman history.’ The smile faded from her lips. ‘If it’s true,’ she continued, ‘that Claudius is descended from Aeneas of Troy and if my midwives are correct, it would seem that Aeneas is going to have another descendant. Doesn’t that please you, Agrippina?’

‘I’m ecstatic for you,’ my mistress cooed. ‘Please accept my sincere congratulations. I can assure you,’ Agrippina popped a grape in her mouth, ‘both you and your children are never far from my thoughts.’

‘And you and yours,’ Messalina retorted, ‘are never out of mine.’

On such a note the banquet ended. Claudius, drunkenly murmuring about the Auguries, was helped to his litter. Agrippina and Messalina kissed, looking more like gladiators saluting each other in the arena, and the imperial party left in a blare of trumpets and a line of spluttering torches. Agrippina clapped her hands and pronounced herself satisfied.

‘Be careful,’ I warned.

‘Oh, I’m going to be, Parmenon,’ she whispered. ‘I am going to be very, very careful. I sincerely hope Messalina is as well. Now, was the music appropriate? Do you think Claudius was impressed by my knowledge of Roman history?’

‘Rome has no finer actress,’ I applauded.

She slapped me on the hand. ‘Well, they’ve gone,’ she continued, ‘and I’ve got business to do. It’s going to be a busy night for us, Parmenon.’

She went out, and when she returned, two burly, shadowy figures entered behind her. My heart skipped a beat: their outlines were familiar. I glimpsed thick hair falling down to the shoulders and bearded faces. Castor and Pollux stepped into the pool of torchlight.

‘By all the Gods!’ I exclaimed.

Both Germans glanced at me, those icy-blue eyes studying my face carefully.

‘You’ve got nothing to fear,’ Agrippina assured me. ‘These men took an oath of allegiance to my brother, and now he’s dead, they owe it to me.’

Agrippina stepped forward and looked at each from head to toe. They were now dressed in simple tunics, no longer the red and white of the Emperor’s personal guard. Silver torcs circled their necks, copper bracelets were round their wrists. They still looked very dangerous in their marching boots, with broad daggers hanging from the belts across their shoulders.

‘They have taken an oath of allegiance,’ Agrippina declared, ‘and we have shared bread and salt. They are my shadows, protection for me and my son.’