Domina

Chapter 14

‘Did you attend the games?’

Pallas looked anxious, his eyes red-rimmed and ringed with shadows. He’d invited me into the treasury, and we sat in a small chamber near the imperial counting house, with its door locked, bolted and guarded. I knew by the fact that Pallas had invited me down there, that he must be upset and very wary, since he normally tended to acknowledge my presence only with a smile or a nod, considering me little more than Agrippina’s minion.

‘And is it true what happened?’

He picked up a wine jug, its lid carved in the form of a beautiful mermaid, and filled my Agamemnon goblet.

‘Well, is it true?’ he insisted. ‘One insult after another?’

‘The whole day was given over to it: goats, pumpkins, peacock feathers, mushrooms.’

‘But the crowd didn’t understand the significance?’

‘They will eventually,’ I retorted.

Pallas sighed noisily. ‘Doesn’t Agrippina realise what is happening?’ he wailed. ‘Seneca, that clever bugger, might be mocking Claudius but he is also mocking her. He’s proclaiming to the world that Agrippina killed her husband. With sarcasm as his weapon,’ he continued, ‘he’s nibbling away at Agrippina’s position like a dog at a juicy bone. Soon he’ll reach the marrow.’ He paused. ‘And what is Locusta doing back in Rome?’

‘Agrippina didn’t mind,’ I replied. ‘I have made enquiries and it seems that Nero himself ordered her return to Rome.’

‘Oh, he would!’ Pallas laughed sourly. ‘And how can Agrippina object? “You can’t have that woman in Rome”,’ Pallas mimicked Agrippina, ‘“I used her to poison the Emperor”.’ He fished amongst the scrolls on the desk and held one up. ‘There’s more. Nero hardly knew his father, and certainly never regretted his loss, but now our Emperor is suddenly all tender and dewy-eyed over his father’s memory. He’s planning to ask the Senate to pay the drunken, dropsical, dead Domitius special honours. I wouldn’t be surprised if some town or city, even Rome itself, isn’t forced to raise a subscription to have a beautifully carved statue of Nero’s degenerate father gracing some podium or the portico of a temple.’ Pallas let the scroll fall back on the table. ‘Nero doesn’t give a dog’s breath about his father, but Agrippina is going to find out that he doesn’t give a fig about anything: that old humbug Seneca has encouraged our Emperor into a course of action which he knows will offend Agrippina.’

Pallas picked up a thin parchment knife. He used it as a gladiator would a sword.

‘It’s prick, prick, scratch, scratch.’

‘But it won’t work,’ I retorted. ‘Agrippina is convinced of Nero’s love, his undying adoration and loyalty, so if he mocks Claudius’s memory, honours his dead father and employs the service of a well-known poisoner, how does that affect her position?’

I was being deliberately naive. I knew the answer even before Pallas replied.

He kicked the stool back and leapt to his feet, his podgy hands flailing the air. ‘Parmenon, Parmenon. You survived Tiberius, Caligula and Claudius: you know this is only the beginning. Seneca has yet to sink his teeth deeper into the bone. Now tell me, what has been Agrippina’s greatest achievement?’

‘You know that,’ I replied. ‘She managed to ensure that Nero became Emperor and Britannicus was disinherited. And, before you repeat yourself, Pallas, I know Seneca is now mocking us.’

‘But have you asked yourself why?’

‘Of course. He’s trying to drive a wedge between Agrippina and her son.’

‘Good, and what else?’

‘He’s trying to disassociate his pupil, our golden Nero, from the murder of the pathetic man who appointed him his heir.’

‘Good!’ Pallas agreed like a teacher.

‘At the same time,’ I added, ‘Seneca is quietly reminding Nero that he owes the throne to his mother and if one Emperor can be murdered. .’

‘Exactly!’ Pallas agreed, sipping from his goblet. ‘They are,’ he searched for words, ‘they are trying to separate son from mother. Nero is the new Emperor, the golden boy of prophecy.’ He waved his hands. ‘Agrippina belongs to the past. She’s achieved her task, and should now retire. The next step will be to provoke Nero, who is an adolescent boy after all — Emperor or not — into full-scale rebellion against his overbearing mother. I’ll tell you a story: two days ago Agrippina brought Nero here, into the Chamber of Silver. Apparently he had given a generous sum of money to a friend. Agrippina, to make him realise its value, made me place the same amount in front of him on this table. Nero lolled in my chair as the slaves emptied out the bags of gold, examined it carefully, and then scoffed, “If I had known it was so little I would have doubled it.” He got to his feet and walked out, leaving Agrippina bemused.’

‘The impetuosity of youth,’ I commented. ‘More important are Seneca’s reasons for this attack.’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Pallas replied. ‘Seneca is sarcastic and bitter.’ He held up a hand. ‘He’s been exiled twice now by the imperial family. He loathed Corsica and its inhabitants, and despised their customs, their food and their drink. He regularly wrote begging letters to Caligula asking to have the exile lifted.’

‘And now he blames Agrippina for that?’

‘Yes, I think he hates the Augusta, and holds both her and her family responsible for his misery, so he’s going to settle his grudge once and for all. Seneca also likes wealth and power, and Agrippina has opened the door to both for him. Seneca, the former exile and philosopher, now has the chance to control both an Emperor and an empire, and he wants to do it by himself. He’d love to kiss Agrippina goodbye. So whilst Nero acts the angry, young man, Seneca will continue to plot. What do you think his next step will be, Parmenon?’

I recalled Agrippina and her young son sitting in the gardens at Antium or her estates in Tusculum.

‘Nero is Agrippina’s Achilles heel,’ I replied. ‘She will make the same mistake that all mothers do. A mother’s love is limitless and unconditional, her loyalty is undying; like all mothers, she expects her son to reciprocate.’ I paused. ‘Seneca has demonstrated that Agrippina can be criticised with impunity. He’s depicted her as a greater fool even than Claudius, whilst also reminding Nero that she cleared his path to the throne. The next step Seneca will take is to start asking Nero if it is truly he that rules, or his mother? It will be easy to turn that young man’s head.’

‘And then what?’ Pallas demanded.

‘Seneca will go for the throat. He’s studied his young student very closely, and really it’s a matter of logic, isn’t it, Pallas? If Nero can be dominated by one woman, his mother, then why not another. .?’

‘Acte?’

‘Acte,’ I agreed. ‘She’s wealthy, civilised, courteous, extremely beautiful and alluring. She bears more than a passing resemblance to a young Agrippina. Seneca has chosen well. What do you know of her?’

‘Some say she’s a courtesan,’ Pallas replied. ‘Others claim she lives a chaste life, which will appeal to our Emperor. Apparently Seneca brought her into Rome and persuaded his friend Serenus to set her up in a house in a fashionable district. The young woman has been paraded before Nero like a prize mare. If rumour is to be believed, Nero’s interest in her is growing by the day.’

‘But all Emperors have favourites,’ I replied. ‘Nero is only seventeen, it will just be a passing infatuation.’

‘Oh, it will pass all right,’ Pallas agreed. ‘But Nero’s youth is his very weakness: he’s determined to show his mother that she’s no longer the most important woman in his life; that he loves Acte, or someone else, more than he does Agrippina.’

I could see where Pallas was leading. Agrippina was truly vulnerable. She adored her son and, for the first time ever, would experience the pangs of jealousy.

‘Now we come to the purpose of this meeting.’ Pallas picked up a stack of coins and tossed them from hand to hand. ‘If Agrippina can be persuaded to keep her temper, to ignore Seneca’s provocation, to maintain a still tongue. .’

‘All will be well,’ I finished.

‘All will be well. If Agrippina attacks, however. .’ He threw the coins on the table. ‘Then the game is lost.’

I left the treasury with Pallas’s warnings ringing in my ears. On that same day I begged for an interview with Agrippina and warned her exactly what Seneca was plotting. She laughed at my worries but promised to heed my advice, although I could see it was already too late. When I mentioned Acte, red spots of anger appeared high in her cheeks and her eyes narrowed. The damage was already done.

‘You could try and remove Seneca?’ I suggested.

‘Impossible.’ She shook her head. ‘If I have made one mistake in life, Parmenon-’ She smiled. ‘What am I saying? I’ve made many — Seneca must rank as my greatest. I’ll heed what you say.’

She brought the interview to an end and was already at the door when she called my name.

‘Tell me, Parmenon, do you think Narcissus was mocking me with those games, that banquet?’

‘I don’t think so, Domina, I know. He may be a wounded animal but Narcissus is still dangerous.’

Agrippina kept her head down. ‘Wounded you say? Thank you, Parmenon.’

A few days later Narcissus was taken ill on a journey. He had barely left the city when the slaves heard moans and thrashing coming from the litter. They pulled back the curtain, to discover Narcissus hardly breathing, his skin clammy and cold, complaining of pains throughout his body. They hurried him back to Rome but it was too late, and Narcissus died, strangely enough close to Messalina’s tomb. Seneca sent Praetorians to his house, to search for papers and certain letters, but to his fury all they found were charred fragments: Narcissus, or someone else, had taken great pains to destroy any incriminating documents.

Narcissus’s funeral rites were barely over when Nero despatched a letter to Pallas thanking him for his hard work at the treasury, and pointing out that, as the burdens of state must be affecting Pallas’s health, it was time he retired. Pallas had no choice but to agree. He left in style with an escort of German guards, the personal retinue of Agrippina, walking before him, as he sat enthroned in a litter. Eight Abyssinians carried it shoulder high whilst his servants and friends, slaves and household retainers trooped behind in a solemn procession. Nero watched him go, standing on the top step of the treasury. He waved goodbye, waggling his fingers as if Pallas was a fellow pupil leaving a school.

‘Take care!’ the Emperor cooed.

In one quick stroke Seneca had removed Agrippina’s most powerful and loyal ally. He returned to the attack. Acte appeared more and more in the Emperor’s retinue, and Nero singled her out for pleasant, private conversations, and quiet supper parties — just the two of them — followed by night walks in the gardens. He showered her with costly gifts, and granted her a suite of apartments in the imperial palace. Nero stopped visiting his mother as often as she wished, and even worse, when Nero wanted to be alone with Acte, Agrippina was shown the door.

Agrippina became like a woman obsessed. Unable to sleep, she neglected affairs of state, and spent most of her waking hours railing at Acte and her son’s ingratitude.

‘What am I to do, Parmenon?’ she cried.

‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘Domina,’ I fell on my knees before her, ‘Acte is not Narcissus, an enemy to be removed. Let your son have his way. Leave Rome for a while.’

It was the only time Agrippina ever struck me in anger. She refused to listen and instead ordered me from of her presence. I waited in the antechamber, hoping she would regret her actions. Suddenly the door to her chamber flew open and Agrippina swept out, her maids running behind her. She walked like a general down the galleries and corridors, to where Nero was drinking with a small party of friends. Bursting in, she openly confronted her son.

‘See,’ she shouted, pointing at Acte lying on a couch next to Nero, ‘what a spectacle my son offers to Rome! Nero the Emperor!’ she sneered. ‘Like a doting, old man lying at the feet of a former slave: a woman who can be bought to give a man an hour of pleasure!’

Agrippina stood in the doorway, as I and the other servants huddled behind her. She was beyond all reason.

‘Look at her!’ Agrippina shouted. ‘She’s nothing more than a painted whore but the Emperor of Rome has made her his official mistress. Is it for this that I made you Emperor, the legitimate heir of Claudius?’ She turned on Seneca who was lying on the couch to Nero’s left. ‘I thought I was choosing a tutor, the wisest man in the whole Empire, but in truth, I picked a fool. His student, my son, fornicates with a freedwoman whilst Octavia, his proper wife, is neglected and repelled and I, Germanicus’s daughter, am insulted and ignored!’

She stopped, shoulders heaving. She put a hand out and leaned against the lintel. Nero’s guests stared in disbelief, a frozen tableau in some play. Acte kept her head down, and Seneca looked astonished, his eyes screwed up in mock hurt. Nero had the measure of his mother. He picked up that emerald eye-glass and examined her closely.

‘Why, Mother? What is the matter? Have you been drinking? As you know, I invited you here this evening but you said you were unable to come.’ He shifted his gaze. ‘Is that you, Parmenon? Take my mother back to her apartments. She’s overcome with exertion.’ He let the eye-glass drop on its silver chain and waved his hand. ‘Now, leave!’

Agrippina withdrew. I tried to seize her by the arm, but she shook me off. Behind the closing doors I heard muffled conversation and the sound of laughter. Agrippina walked slowly back to her chamber. She dismissed the maids and spent the rest of that night pacing up and down, pondering her next move.

The following day Nero added insult to injury: he opened the storerooms of the palace where the jewels and ornaments were kept, and chose from the treasure an exquisite headdress and pendant which he sent as gifts to his mother. I was with Agrippina when they arrived. She had been trying to calm her rage by dictating letters to stewards and bailiffs on her estates outside Rome. When the servants presented the gifts, she knocked them out of their hands.

‘Tell my son,’ she hissed, ‘that everything he possesses actually belongs to me! He is only sending me what is already mine!’

I attempted to reason with Agrippina but she was possessed by anger. All she was conscious of was her waning influence over her son and the hated presence of Acte. Nero now decided to twist the cord a little tighter, telling her that in view of his love for Acte he might divorce Octavia and marry his new love, abdicate as Emperor and retire to Rhodes to live as a private citizen. The barbs struck home: he was rejecting Agrippina and everything she had worked for.

Agrippina brooded and refused to tell me what she was planning. Her next confrontation with Nero, during one of Nero’s eternal banquets, struck terror in my heart. Agrippina was given the place of honour, though Nero spent most of his time whispering to Acte, showing her every mark of public affection. The guests were all aware of Agrippina drinking a little too fast as she glared at her son: it was like waiting for a violent storm to strike on a beautiful summer’s day. Nero turned to fill his mother’s cup and she let it drop to the floor, the precious goblet smashing to smithereens.

‘Why, Mother,’ Nero drawled. ‘What is the matter?’

Agrippina swung her legs from the couch, got to her feet and stood over him. ‘Why, son, have you forgotten?’ She gestured down the hall to where Britannicus sat with his friends. ‘He is no longer a child,’ she snapped. ‘He is Claudius’s true son, the real heir to the throne.’ Her voice rose. ‘The throne that you stole with my help — your mother whom you now insult. All Rome shall learn of all this! The army will choose!’

It was ridiculous scene. After Agrippina withdrew, for the first time in my life I pushed her through the antechamber into her own private writing office, where she stood like a little girl ready to be chastised. I could not forget Nero’s face at that banquet, those popping blue eyes, the effeminate curls and pouting lips.

‘Domina,’ I shouted, ‘you’ve signed our death warrants and that of Britannicus. You’ve challenged your own son!’

Agrippina did not break down in tears. She sat on a stool clutching the fringes of her robes, staring at the wall. In that moment her greatest weakness was exposed: this wasn’t about the empire or power, about who controlled the court and army, this was a mother who truly believed her son had publicly spurned her. She’d lashed out, uttering the first thing that came into her mind. I sighed and knelt beside her.

‘Domina, listen!’ I urged. ‘Would it be so bad if your son abdicated and took you with him to Antium to live as private citizens. .?’

Her eyes crinkled in amusement.

‘Why, Parmenon, you are quite a philosopher. You are right: all my life I dreamt of being the Augusta, a new Livia, mistress of an empire. I have achieved that but now I’ve lost my son, haven’t I, Parmenon?’

‘It can be rectified, Domina.’

I’ve told many lies in my life, but that was my greatest. Nero was no longer her son. He was what the empire had made him: a monster. Or had his father been right? Was there something in the blood, some evil taint? Did Nero have the same penchant for wickedness as Caligula and Tiberius? Of course he did!

He did not dare touch Agrippina but, like a panther, he turned on Britannicus. The young man was invited to another banquet, where, hoping to make fun of him, Nero asked to hear one of his poems. Britannicus performed so brilliantly that even Nero’s claque, a group of professional hand-clappers who wore their hair bushy and went under the name of ‘The Bees’, were impressed. Nero took a vile revenge: he attacked Britannicus and buggered him, heaping humiliation upon him. Caligula’s ghost had returned.

Nero spent more time with his foppish courtiers, consulting Seneca or Burrus if he wanted advice, whilst Agrippina stayed in her own apartments, where most of her household, apart from Acerronia and Creperius, were Seneca’s spies. The hangers-on and time-servers soon sniffed the breeze and realised what was coming. Agrippina was still physically safe but Britannicus, a mere shadow of his former self, had to be dealt with. He started to suffer from epileptic seizures, during which his face would turn blue, his neck would swell convulsively and he’d froth at the mouth. Britannicus one could see was marked down for death. I pleaded with Agrippina and she tried to do what she could, sending antidotes for Britannicus, warning him to watch what he ate and drank. But Nero brought Locusta the poisoner back into the palace and put her under the direct charge of one of Burrus’s lieutenants, the tribune Julius Pollio. All the court suspected what was happening. A poison was given to Britannicus but the dosage was too small, and after stomach pains he soon recovered. Nero was so annoyed that he beat Locusta with his own hands until she promised something that ‘would act like lightning’. The poison she concocted was served to a pig and within seconds it had dropped down dead.

A sumptuous supper party was arranged, to which all of the court were invited, including Agrippina and me. The theme was Persian and the rooms and couches were decorated with exquisite Persian tapestries, whilst we were served with delicious dishes from that country. A special soup was brewed for Britannicus to avoid upsetting his delicate stomach, but finding it too hot he returned it and asked for some cold water to be added. The poison must have been added then. In less than a minute, Britannicus lurched off his couch, with his hands clutching at his throat, only to fall lifeless to the floor.

‘Do not trouble yourselves,’ Nero drawled to the guests. ‘My brother Britannicus is subject to fits.’

Two Nubians carried Britannicus’s body from the dining hall and the banquet continued. Agrippina and I managed to slip away and discovered Britannicus’s corpse sprawled on a couch in an adjoining room. Embalmers were already smearing it with creams and cosmetics to hide the livid, dark spots appearing all over the skin. Within hours the body was sheeted, taken out to a makeshift funeral pyre and consumed by flames.

Agrippina returned to her chamber, her face as pale as that of a ghost. She sat at her writing desk, hastily scrawled a note on a wax tablet and told me to send Creperius with it to a house in the Jewish quarter across the Tiber. Once this was done I returned to the chamber.

‘What is this nonsense?’ I demanded. ‘Do you really need to consult a soothsayer to learn what the future holds?’

Agrippina refused to listen. Creperius returned and said that Joah the Israelite would meet her immediately. Agrippina ordered a plain litter to be brought to the side door of her private apartments, and Acerronia and I were ordered to escort her. The bearers, all trusted slaves, took her at a soft-footed run down through the alleyways of the Palatine and across the bridge into the Jewish quarter. Joah’s house was unpretentious, flanked on one side by a cookshop, and on the other by a small warehouse. Joah was tall and lean with a gaunt face, cascading white hair and a moustache and beard of the same colour. He had large, deep-set eyes and the sort of magical presence which appealed to his select clientele of wealthy, Roman women. He opened the door before I even knocked.

‘Tell the Augusta to come in.’ He looked at me closely. ‘And you and her waiting woman. You can be trusted, Parmenon, can’t you?’

I don’t know whether he truly had magical powers or was just shrewd enough to know that I worked closely with Agrippina.

The room he ushered us into was dark and lit by flickering oil lamps. ‘I have the answer to what you are going to ask,’ he declared, closing the door behind us. The magician strode across and placed a hand on Agrippina’s shoulder.

‘Lie down on the floor!’ he urged. ‘Parmenon, Acerronia, stand in the corner. Do not react to what happens.’

Agrippina pulled off her headdress and lay down. Immediately strange shrieks and cries seemed to echo from the earthbeaten floor, and the air became thick with the odour of pungent sharp spices. The light seemed to grow, showing great spider webs that glimmered on the floor and crept over Agrippina’s prostrate body. Only then did I glimpse the altar half way down the room. Joah drew what looked like a white, gleaming circle round Agrippina’s body. The light became as intense as that of the corona of the sun during an eclipse. I had to shield my eyes even as I marvelled at the magician’s trickery. How he created that illusion, I have never understood. He ordered Agrippina to hold a small sheaf of corn in her left hand and, with her right, to count out thirteen grains of corn. As Agrippina obeyed, Joah scooped these up and put them in a small copper cup which he poured into a silver bowl and filled with water.

‘Drink!’ he urged Agrippina.

She later told me that the grains of corn sparkled like diamonds whilst the water seemed to fire her blood. She lay back again, as Joah made signs over her face and the phenomena disappeared. We were just in an ill-lit, dank room with the mother of the Emperor of Rome lying on a dirty floor. Joah helped Agrippina to her feet and kissed her fingers.

‘Well?’ Agrippina demanded.

‘It is finished,’ Joah murmured, stepping back. ‘Another woman will take your place.’

‘Acte?’ Agrippina spat out.

Joah shook his head. ‘No, another woman!’

We left that magician’s house and returned to the Palatine, where Agrippina brooded for days. Joah was either a true prophet or possibly just a very shrewd observer of court affairs. The open opposition, behind which I could detect Seneca’s hand, began with murmurs and whispers. Court cases were begun against her and the Emperor railed that his palace was becoming a meeting place for her litigants. He visited his mother less and less and eventually it was tactfully suggested that Agrippina should leave the palace and move to a nearby house. She had no choice but to obey. Although she was allowed to take her possessions, the guards were withdrawn: she was no longer a member of the imperial circle.

Nero seemed intent on demonstrating to his mother the depths of his decadence. He organised an elaborate, mock naval engagement on an artificial lake of salt water but the display got out of hand and many of the sailors were killed: Nero declared himself disgusted with such bloodshed. He next staged a ballet of the Minotaur legend with an actor disguised as a bull actually mounting another playing the role of Pasiphaë. The crowd were treated to the sight of the bull copulating with the hind quarters of a hollow heifer. At night Nero, disguised in a cap or a wig, prowled the streets and the taverns looking for mischief. Occasionally he’d visit the theatre in a sedan chair to watch the quarrels amongst the pantomime actors, joining in when they came to blows and fought it out with stones and broken benches. His feasts started at noon and would last till dawn, with an occasional break for swimming in warm baths or, if it was summer, snow-cooled waters. On one occasion he floated down the Tiber to Ostia and arranged for a row of temporary brothels to be erected along the shore in which married women, pretending to be inn-keepers, solicited him for custom. He never wore the same clothes twice and would stake thousands of gold pieces on the throw of a dice. He always insisted on being accompanied by a lavishly garbed retinue, and even the mules of his pack train were shod with silver.

Agrippina tried to hide herself away from all this but Nero kept up the insults. He would send her mushrooms, calling them ‘the Food of Gods and Goats’ and taunted her by granting Locusta a house in Rome as well as country estates. He despatched lawyers and their clerks to stand under her window, disturbing her with jeers and cat-calls. Mysterious gifts of food arrived, some of them blatantly poisoned.

I tired of this nonsense and opened my treasure chests to hire bodyguards, who drove away the litigants and ensured that any gifts brought to the house were immediately destroyed. Agrippina’s hair began to turn grey, and her face became gaunt as she lost weight. Nero had perfected his sadistic teasing of her. He would visit Agrippina in a profuse show of solicitude and concern, and build up her hopes, as he sat at her feet, wide-eyed, listening to her advice. Then he would jump to his feet, crowing with laughter, and leave, mimicking what she had said.

Agrippina, now full of guilt over Britannicus’s death, also tried to comfort the young Octavia, who was in a parlous state: her face was ashen and, in spite of her youth, she was losing clumps of hair from worry. Terrified of what had happened to Britannicus, she refused to leave her chamber, and would fret herself sick if her nurse, an old family retainer, left her sight.

Agrippina tried to fight back but Nero’s cruelty became even more barbed. I was in the Forum when I first heard rumours that Nero had been seduced by his own mother. On investigating these stories, I discovered that Nero had paid his servants to ransack the brothels of Rome until they found a woman who looked remarkably like Agrippina. Nero then had the woman dressed in his mother’s clothes, and would sit closeted with her in his litter. When he emerged, people could tell from the stains on his tunic and his air of dishevelment that, as one wit put it, ‘he’d not been discussing the problem of Parthia!’. I tried to protect Domina but Nero ensured such rumours reached her, and in despair she took to her bed, refusing food and drink.

I called on the services of every physician and quack in Rome, but they examined her and walked away, shaking their heads. Nero’s game became more intense, and he sent the woman masquerading as his mother to the house. I intervened and courteously turned her away. It was a chilling experience: she was the image of Agrippina until she opened her mouth and spoke, displaying her blackened teeth. At last I decided to sue for terms. For days I kicked my heels outside Seneca’s office until that wily, old Spaniard granted me an audience. He studied me with black, hooded eyes, a faint smile on his lips.

‘Your mistress will know peace, Parmenon, once she leaves both the Emperor and Rome alone.’

‘Exile?’ I asked.

‘When she leaves Nero and the Empire alone,’ he said, flicking his hand as a sign of dismissal.

By the end of the week, despite her feeble protests, Acerronia and I put Agrippina in a litter. We packed whatever possessions we could and took the road to Antium. Perhaps I should have waited for Nero was soon distracted from his cruel games against his mother, not by Acte, but by the new love of his life, the beautiful, exquisite Poppea. By that time, however, we were out of Rome. Agrippina began to recover even before we reached Antium, curious about where we were going and mocking what little retinue the Emperor of Rome’s mother possessed.

So we came to Antium, and enjoyed soft summer days, good food and delicious wines, and Agrippina took a new lover, Callienus, a Greek actor. We became accustomed to spending more and more of our afternoons together in the garden, reminiscing about the past and wondering about the future. Even then Agrippina was still convinced that her son’s love was only dormant, not dead. Because of that, she accepted Nero’s invitation to Baiae and that last, splendid feast. Because of her deep unconditional love for her monster of a son, she took ship across the Bay of Naples at night and was almost drowned by his minions. In the end, because of her all-consuming love, she and I sheltered in a dark, cold villa and waited for her beloved son to finish the task he had begun.