Domina

Chapter 15

Whilst we sat and reminisced, Nero and his cronies put their heads together. I later found out exactly what had happened: after all, I was the man who assisted both Burrus and Seneca to end their lives. Oh yes, Agrippina was pushed into eternal night but I became the nemesis of those who had plotted her downfall.

After his mother left on the bireme, Nero was as happy as a lark on a spring morning. He closeted himself in his private dining chamber at Baiae, his minions around him. He was already preparing the funeral speech, in which he would praise Agrippina’s virtues and berate Neptune for taking the ‘best of mothers’ from him. He lounged on his couch whilst Anicetus sniffed at a garland of flowers. As the evening wore on, Nero became more restless, until at last a messenger arrived, the freedman Agerinus, who, although a member of our household, was a born informant. He’d been picked up by the trireme, and although suspicious, was still not sure whether the accident was genuine or arranged. He threw himself at Nero’s feet, blurting out, ‘The Empress, your beloved mother, has had an accident! The boat sank but the Gods of sea and sky were with her, and she swam to safety. She sends word for you not to be anxious.’

Of course, Agerinus had invented the last part, protecting Nero as well as himself. He could hardly have burst in and shouted, ‘The accident you arranged for your bitch of a mother went wrong and she’s now safe!’

Nero promptly dismissed him. As soon as Agerinus was out of the room, the little monster had an anxiety attack. He paced up and down, half swooning with fear, and threw himself down onto his couch.

‘Oh Gods!’ he bawled. ‘Mother has survived. She will arm her slaves, seek the Praetorian Guard’s protection and demand to speak to the Senate. What can I do to save myself?’ He turned to Burrus and Seneca. ‘What can I do? Help me!’

This precious pair simply stared back at him. Nero was correct: if it had been against anyone but her son, Agrippina would have marched on Rome, and the Praetorian Guard would certainly have been aghast at any attack on the daughter of their beloved Germanicus. I am sure their minds teemed with the knowledge that, if there were a coup, they would fall with Nero. Much as they might have wished to see the back of him, who could be the next Emperor? Thanks to Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius and Nero, with a little help from Agrippina, there were no successors left in the Claudian line. What if the troops hailed Agrippina as Empress or allowed her to choose the next Emperor for the Senate to confirm? There were other considerations: as a soldier, Burrus might not have liked the odds stacked against him. Seneca, although a hypocrite, was a well-known philosopher — how could the First Minister of Rome advise his Emperor to murder ‘the best of mothers’?

Nero sobbed on the couch, and lifted his tearful face. ‘Burrus, can’t you order your troops to strike?’

‘They will not do it,’ the Praetorian tribune replied. ‘They love your Excellency but they also love your mother.’ He waved a hand contemptuously at Anicetus who was still sniffing the flowers. ‘He started this, so let him finish it!’

As Burrus and Seneca withdrew, Anicetus threw the garland on the floor, got to his feet, stretched and said lazily, ‘Caesar, you go to bed, and dream happily. I have work to do.’

He then summoned two of his lieutenants, naval officers Hercules and Oberitius, as well as a group of tough marines. They took the fleetest horses in the stables and rode around the bay to Agrippina’s villa.

As I said, I discovered all this later. Since our escape, I’d been listening to Agrippina’s reminscences, and begging her to flee. But Agrippina knew it was the end. She just sat by the brazier sipping her wine. As the news of the accident and her escape had spread, people had flocked to the villa. Once they’d discovered it was not the accident they’d first thought, they soon disappeared. The maids and servants also slipped away into the night. As Agrippina heard their fading footsteps, she glanced at me and smiled.

‘Won’t you go too?’

‘I will stay, Domina.’

‘He will not harm me.’

I closed my eyes at the foolishness of it all. She had just escaped a drowning arranged by her son and, within hours of reaching safety, she’d started to excuse him.

‘Let us remember, Parmenon?’ she continued. Her eyes had a dreamy, far-away look and she’d go back down the years, laughing and joking about all people we had known: Claudius and his strange edicts about breaking wind at table; Tiberius’s ears; Passienus embracing his favourite tree. She was still talking when I heard the sound of galloping horses, and shouts from the courtyard. I sprang to my feet and, picking up a sword, put myself between the door and Agrippina. Anicetus, followed by his two lieutenants, burst the lock open and swaggered in. All three must have drunk heavily before they’d left Baiae, I could smell the wine on their breath. Agrippina got to her feet and gently pushed me out of the way.

‘Why, gentlemen, good evening, or should I say good morning? If you have come to visit me, you can report that I am recovered. But if you don’t mean me well and come as assassins, I know my son is not responsible — he would never order his mother’s death.’

She paused at fresh sounds of further horsemen on the road outside. She nodded at me, and I went to the door, down the empty passageway and into a small paved courtyard. In the light of torches fixed in the wall, I glimpsed a clump of red-gold curls: Nero was there with his German mercenaries. I know that he had not come to save his mother. He swaggered across, a small wine cup in his hand.

‘Why, Parmenon, good evening.’

I sank to my knees before him and he patted my head.

‘Are you grieving already, Parmenon?’

I knew the reason for his visit even as I heard shouts from inside the house. Nero shrank away, as I leapt to my feet and hurried back down the passageway. The door had been closed but I kicked it open. Anicetus and his two lieutenants had now pushed Agrippina back onto the small pallet bed. She was half sitting, her black hair loosened and framing her face. She glanced quickly past them at me: it was her farewell, a slight smile containing all her bravery, and her beauty in those lustrous eyes. One of the lieutenants, I think it was Oberitius, pushed her further back, and before I could intervene, he brought down the flat of his sword, dealing her an ugly blow to the head. Hercules drew his dagger, as Agrippina, the blood coursing down her face, pushed herself back against the wall. She looked once more past them as if she knew that her son was nearby, hiding in the shadows. She took her gown by the neck and ripped it open, thrusting her body forward.

‘I am Agrippina!’ she shouted, eyes blazing. ‘Daughter of Germanicus, sister of Caligula, mother of Nero! Yes, mother of Nero!’ She clutched her stomach. ‘If you must strike, then strike here!’

Hercules hesitated.

‘Strike at my womb!’ Agrippina shouted.

His blade went down, thrusting in up to the hilt. Agrippina arched forward, eyes closed, mouth open. She collapsed to the floor. I crept within the doorway and stood in the shadows. I couldn’t stop trembling. I felt as if a cold wind had wrapped itself around me, numbing my mind and heart. Agrippina’s body sprawled on the floor, as the three assassins stepped back, looked fearfully at each other. There was a sound of footsteps and Nero’s shadow crossed the threshold. He grinned sideways at me and I saw Caligula’s face. Two devils in one! Nero stretched his hand out, fingers twisted into a claw, which he pressed into my face pushing my head further back into the corner.

‘Is she dead?’ His voice was coarse and deep. ‘Is my mother dead?’

He walked across and pulled over the corpse. Squatting down, he stared curiously at the face.

‘Give me some wine!’

Anicetus filled a goblet, which was the one Agrippina had used. Nero slurped from it, as he stretched out his hand and touched the pool of blood. He stared and, grabbing his mother’s torn dress, rent it even further. He minutely examined the corpse, noting each bruise and lesion.

‘She was beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘Wasn’t she, Anicetus? Look at her breasts, her neck?’

The silence in the room grew oppressive. Nero got to his feet.

‘Parmenon, are you still there?’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘And what of Mother? Do you feel her, Anicetus? Her ghost? They make a precious pair, don’t they? Uncle Caligula and her.’

Nero began to hop strangely from foot to foot. He went to the window, looked out at the fading moon and quickly withdrew, flattening his back against the wall.

‘She’s in the garden!’ he whispered. ‘Anicetus, get me. . get me some black broad beans!’

Anicetus stood rooted to the spot.

‘Get them!’ Nero urged.

Anicetus hurried to the door, glancing fearfully at me. A short while later he returned and thrust a handful of beans into Nero’s hand. The monster stood, head tilted back, and put the beans into his mouth, some dropping out to clatter on the floor. Nero took his sandals off and did a strange barefoot dance, snapping his fingers, a popular exercise to frighten away ghosts. He left, running out into the garden where a small fountain bubbled. Three times he washed his hands in the icy water and came back, snapping his fingers and throwing over his shoulders the black beans he’d stuffed into his mouth. He paused gasping, muttering strange words, spells he had learnt. All the time I stayed still, until the left side of my face grew numb and I began to rub it. I wanted to flee but I couldn’t. All I could see was that madman and Agrippina’s corpse stiffening on the floor, the widening pool of blood mixing with her long black hair.

‘Excellency.’ Anicetus stepped forward and grasped Nero’s shoulder.

‘What is it?’ the monster gasped.

‘You are to be congratulated,’ Anicetus soothed, ‘on being rescued from a treasonable conspiracy against your life.’

‘Am I?’ Nero asked anxiously. The monster was still half drunk.

Anicetus pointed to Agrippina. ‘She was responsible; her threats were well known.’

Nero staggered to a stool and sat down.

‘And her accomplice?’ he asked anxiously.

Anicetus turned his head, smiling at me through the darkness. ‘Why, Caesar, he stands just within the doorway. He should be brought back to Rome. I am sure Tigellinus would be delighted to put him to the question.’

Anicetus walked towards me. He didn’t even flinch as his sandals slapped through Agrippina’s blood. He stretched out his sword and thrust the tip into the soft part of my throat.

‘The eyes and ears of Agrippina,’ he whispered. ‘What are you going to do, Parmenon? Beg for your life? Hercules! Oberitius!’ He called out to his two lieutenants. ‘Bind his hands!’

The two ruffians came forward. I became aware of warmth, of hands touching me, of what had happened, of the yawning emptiness. I would never talk to Agrippina again. I would never shout at her, smile at her, tell her she was wrong. Above all, those eyes of hers would never again catch mine, smiling and winking. Oh, I know all about her cruelties, her depravity. . but I loved Agrippina. The sheer emptiness of a life without her shattered my soul. I lashed out, longing to grasp a sword and plunge it in deep. I was aware of footsteps in the corridor outside, and one of the Germans came to enquire what was going on. Anicetus bawled at him to stay away and guard the gates. I was pummelled and kicked, my arms seized, my wrists lashed and bound together. I was forced to kneel, while Hercules seized my hair, yanking my head forward. I heard the hiss of a sword drawn by Oberitius. Looking to the left, I glimpsed his sandalled feet apart, legs tense. He was bringing the sword back for the killing blow.

‘Caesar!’ Anicetus’s voice was low and soothing. ‘We should execute him now, and take his head back to Rome as further proof. Or, as I have said, Tigellinus could put him to the question. Once Parmenon has confessed the details of how he and his mistress plotted your overthrow, we could make it public and read it out to the Senate, the Praetorian Guard, the provinces and the army.’

I tasted blood in my mouth. Lifting my head, I stared at that figure sitting in the chair still muttering to himself. I thought of Tiberius’s cruel face, Caligula’s mad eyes and Claudius’s twisted mouth opening and shutting like that of an ugly carp. I didn’t really care whether I died now or was taken back to Rome. I’d confess to nothing.

‘Caesar!’ Anicetus demanded. ‘I await your orders!’

I heard the stool scrape back, as Nero got to his feet and made his way over.

‘Well, well, well!’ he breathed. He patted me on the head. ‘What are you doing down there, Parmenon? Get him up! Get him up!’

I was hustled to my feet. Nero pushed his face a few inches from mine, his eyes lazy, his mouth half open. The monster was smiling at me.

‘What do you think of Anicetus’s plan?’ he whispered. ‘Come on, Parmenon, tell him what’s wrong with it. You might win your life.’

‘If you kill me,’ I declared, my mind suddenly sharp and keen. I needed to live — for revenge. ‘If you kill me,’ I repeated, ‘and take my head back to Rome, the people will laugh, and the Senate will mock.’

‘Good!’ Nero murmured. He tweaked my nose playfully.

Anicetus tried to object but Nero held up his hand. ‘Go on, Parmenon,’ he urged. ‘Why will they laugh?’

‘They’ll say it wasn’t much of a conspiracy, Your Excellency.’ I replied. ‘Just one woman living in exile and her manservant. You can scarcely call my head that of a Parthian king or the commander of one of your legions on the Rhine.’

‘Very good!’ Nero wagged a finger in my face. ‘You see, Parmenon.’

I tried not to flinch at the stale wine on his breath.

‘You’ve been around for some time, haven’t you? You’ve danced with Tiberius, Uncle Claudius, Uncle Caligula, not to mention Sejanus and Macro.’ His face suddenly turned ugly. ‘If we are going to have a plot,’ he shouted at Anicetus. ‘Then it has to be a proper plot! Gods!’ He threw his hand up dramatically. ‘Can you imagine what they’d say?’ He mimicked Seneca’s voice. ‘And the lieutenant in this conspiracy was Parmenon! Who’s that, everyone will ask.’

Nero walked up and down like an actor on the stage. If Caligula had been mad, Nero was truly insane. He had built his own reality. To him everything was an act. I am sure he had forgotten about his mother’s corpse stiffening in her own blood.

‘And if we took you back to Rome?’ He came back and stood before me.

‘I wouldn’t confess,’ I replied. ‘Tigellinus can play with my ears, my tongue, my balls or the soles of my feet.’

Nero threw his head back and laughed.

‘Precisely! You see, Anicetus, the lesson you have learnt.’ He turned back and tapped me on the cheek. ‘What is that, Parmenon?’

‘Say as little as possible, Excellency.’

‘Say as little as possible,’ Nero repeated dreamily. ‘Cut his bonds!’ he ordered.

Anicetus reluctantly agreed. Nero grasped me by the shoulder and took me out into the courtyard.

‘I am giving you your life, Parmenon. Do you remember that day in the garden long ago when I was sacrificing the bird to Caligula? You never did tell Mother, did you? See how your Emperor rewards you?’ He pushed me away and stood back. ‘And you’re my link with Mother. I can’t slice through the umbilical cord completely. You’ll say as little as possible, won’t you?’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘Of course you will, because you’re like me, Parmenon, aren’t you?’ He drew closer. ‘You were in the audience at the beginning of this play and you want to see it through to the end, don’t you?’

He turned and talked as if into the darkness, chattering like a child. I suppose I could have killed him then, but I could think of nothing but Agrippina’s corpse.

‘You take care of her, Parmenon,’ Nero declared as if he could read my mind. ‘You take care of “the best of mothers”.’

He walked to the fountain and washed his hands again. He came back and dried them on my tunic, kissed me on each cheek as if I were a favourite uncle, and walked off into the darkness.

The villa fell silent. Nero, his minions, the marines and the Praetorians departed but I knew spies had been left to watch and see what might happen. I picked up Agrippina’s corpse as gently as a mother would cradle a child. Despite the blows to her head and the awful rent to her stomach, her face was peaceful and composed, although already the limbs were cold and stiffening. I feared further degradation, the monster changing his mind and coming back to take her head. Nero was insane: those who are both evil and mad have no sense of what is real. They live in a world of their own dreams and phantasms. Did I feel grief? Well, of course I did! An eerie grief, a profound, enduring sense of loss. My world had died with Agrippina. I stared into her face, kissed the half-open lips and took her out into the courtyard. I laid her on the wet flagstones and went back into the house, to which some of the braver servants and slaves had returned. Wide-eyed, with white, haggard faces, they moved like ghosts, helping me to collect kindling. I took Agrippina’s favourite couch, which was covered in purple and a cloth of the same colour edged in gold. I laid the corpse on it, climbing up the kindling to look once more on her face. I had two coins bearing her imprint, which I used to close her staring eyes. I brushed her hair the way she liked it so that it lay on either side of her face, not piled up like some Roman matron. Wild flowers she’d collected and pressed were placed in her hand. The villa was ransacked for her favourite ornaments and some of the pots she’d made in the kiln.

I stacked all these round the corpse. I said a prayer to some unknown God, to the lightening sky or the breeze. I sprinkled incense and poured oil, and then I covered her face and climbed down. With a torch in one hand and a sword in the other, watched by slaves, some of whom may well have been in the monster’s pay, I saluted and hailed her name: ‘Agrippina, daughter of Germanicus, Imperatrix and Augusta!’ I lit the funeral pyre. The kindling roared, as the flames leapt up to the sky. The shrouded form disappeared in a sheet of blood-red fire and billowing smoke. I do not know how long I stood there watching, as the flames died and a light rain fell. I was aware of dawn, the sun rising, but still I refused to leave. I stood there until late afternoon. One of the servants brought me wine and something to eat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who with?’ Octavia cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Help me!’ he croaked.

I crawled across; his hand was trembling.

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

‘Because your mother asked me to.’

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

‘What-’ he muttered.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘What a great artist perishes in me. .’

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

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

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

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

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