Domina

Chapter 3

Agrippina was a changed woman. Salvara had said that she would be reconciled with Nero, so she thought it was only a matter of waiting. Once again the villa became a place of light, and musicians and dancers were hired. Agrippina spent more time out in the garden, tending flower beds, gossiping with Acerronia. It was all sun, no shadow. I tried to advise her to act prudently. She may have heard, but she certainly didn’t listen. She spent more time on her appearance, hiring hairdressers, buying perfumes and pastes. She even went out to apologise to the chickens and made us all laugh with the little mime she concocted. I hadn’t the heart to remind her that she was still in the arena and the game had yet to begin. Would Poppea give up? I knew Nero for what he was: a spoilt, depraved actor who could play any part the mood suited him. I was troubled by the phrase ‘master of the sea’. What had Salvara meant by that?

Not being superstitious, I decided it was only a matter of logic. Since no one would dare draw a dagger, or so I thought, against the daughter of Germanicus, and poison was ruled out, Agrippina’s death would have to appear an accident. I took matters into my own hands. I patrolled the garden at night, checked doors, paid out money for information to the pedlars and tinkers who wandered the roads.

Antium became busier as the weather improved and the people left the city to take the sea breezes. Our next visitor was that doddering old fool, the banker Quintus Veronius with his balding head, perpetually dripping nose and eyes which looked as if he never stopped crying. He’d made a fortune in the Egyptian corn trade and spent most of his wealth raising peacocks. He’d once made the mistake of inviting Caligula to dinner. Our madcap Emperor arrived and spent most of the evening shooting at the birds from a balcony. The peacocks died and Veronius had a nervous breakdown. He’d retired to Campania and spent his life in mourning until Caligula’s murder. Veronius was a fool, who could be used by anyone. He arrived at the villa in his cumbersome litter as if it was a chance visit, but of course, he’d been sent deliberately. The news he brought only delighted Agrippina further.

‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ Veronius slobbered over his wine. ‘The Emperor, Augusta, is full of your praises. He’s banished two actors from Rome for their lying attacks on your Majesty.’

‘And Poppea?’ I asked wearily.

‘She’s seen less and less. There is news,’ Veronius continued, ‘that Nero is to visit Baiae.’

Every wrinkle disappeared from Agrippina’s face, which became as smooth and creamy as that of a young girl.

‘He’ll visit me,’ she murmured, ‘or he’ll invite me to his villa. You wait and see.’

Veronius continued his journey and Agrippina’s preparations became more frenetic. At last it happened. A bireme arrived on the coast. Officers of the Praetorian Guard marched up the shingle, along the white, dusty trackway and presented themselves at the main door of the villa. They delivered their invitation. The Divine Augustus, Nero, Emperor of Rome, intended to celebrate the feast of Minerva in his imperial villa at Baiae, and he wished Agrippina, ‘the best of mothers’, to be his honoured guest. If I hadn’t stopped her, Agrippina would have kissed them to death. Both officers stayed with us overnight, saying that the bireme would take Agrippina and her household across the bay the next day.

The villa was transformed: servants scurried about; chests and coffers were packed and taken down to the beach. Agrippina emptied her wardrobe, fiercely debating with Acerronia which shoes she should wear, which dress would best suit the occasion.

I travelled lightly, taking just my tunic, sandals, sword, writing implements and a small casket which carried antidotes to the best-known poisons. I also sought the company of the two Praetorians. Former centurions from the German legions, they were only too pleased to be away from the court and to sample the best wine from Agrippina’s cellars whilst sunning themselves in the garden. I introduced myself and let it be known that my father had been an officer in the Second Augusta. For a while we chatted. They were honest men, more interested in fighting, women and wine than in court scandal. Nevertheless, I picked up something: they found it hard to look me in the eye, and if I mentioned Poppea they became tight-lipped. When I reminded them that Agrippina was the daughter of the great Germanicus, they looked away, as if more interested in the flowers and herb plots. I had learnt enough. These men were not party to any plot but they had ears, quick wit and could sense the undercurrents of the court. I returned to the villa and urged Domina to be careful. Agrippina, however, was at her most stately.

‘Parmenon, you are like an old fishwife!’ she snapped. ‘The Emperor has come to Baiae. My son has returned.’

‘It could mean your death!’ I hissed.

Agrippina strode across, shut the door and returned with her eyes blazing. She stood only a few inches away from me. I could smell the herbs she used to sweeten her breath and noticed how the wine had purpled the corner of her lips.

‘I don’t care, Parmenon. If I die in his arms that’s enough for me. Do you understand?’

It was what I had always suspected. Agrippina loved Rome and power, the adulation of the legions, the right to appoint and dismiss, to grant life or death. Nero, however, she loved above all.

We left late that afternoon. Our slaves carried our baggage down to the beach where the marines were camped. We were taken out to the boat and, sails unfurled, the bireme turned, canvas snapping, oars splashing, to make its way across to the waiting glory of Baiae.

Agrippina lounged on a couch in the stern, flanked by Acerronia and Creperius. The sea was calm, just that gentle, undulating movement which always curdled my stomach. I ignored my seasickness and stared at the mist curling across the water. I was aware of the snapping sail, the creak of the rudder, the oarsmen ready to bend and pull, the cries of the pilot, the sharp orders of the captain. Could this be an ambush, I wondered? A trap? Yet the Praetorians seemed relaxed enough. They were dressed in half-armour and wouldn’t relish an accident at sea. The mist lifted, the afternoon sun grew stronger. Baiae came into sight, that den of sin, the playground of the rich and powerful. Green-topped hills overlooked white shingle and dark-green pines, the sun flashed on gleaming marble. Orders were rapped out. Agrippina prepared herself, trying to remain calm as, shielding her eyes, she studied the beach.

‘There’s a procession!’ she exclaimed. ‘Look, my son’s coming to meet me!’

I followed the direction of her eyes and saw the flash of standards, the sheen of gold. I glimpsed soldiers, slaves in white tunics, silk-caparisoned litters, following a group of men walking down onto the beach. Agrippina was as excited as a girl waiting to greet her parents. As the bireme was expertly beached, a guard of honour ran up, a troop of Praetorians who helped Agrippina ashore.

‘Mother!’ Nero came running down the beach, arms extended.

Agrippina hastened to meet him. They met in the most tender of embraces. He kissed her on the cheek, neck and breast before kneeling to hold her hand to his cheek. I studied the Emperor closely. He had got fatter, his reddish hair had been allowed to grow and was carefully coiffed and curled along the brow and nape of his neck. The barber had dusted it with gold. His cheeks and jowls were heavy, his neck thicker. He glanced past Agrippina. His perpetual frown, due to his short-sightedness, cleared and his popping blue eyes crinkled in a smile. I noticed his red-flecked beard and moustache and that he was dressed in the pale-green tunic of a lyrist. He got up, his pronounced paunch making his legs look even more spindly. He tightened the white silk handkerchief round his throat.

‘To protect my voice,’ he explained.

Nero wore no other ornamentation except an exquisite emerald monocle which hung from a gold chain round his neck. Nero had seen me clearly enough but he elegantly held up the monocle and peered.

‘Welcome, Parmenon.’ As he spoke, his voice squeaked and he looked alarmed and tapped his chest carefully.

He grasped his mother’s hand and walked over to me, studying me in that affected manner.

‘Your Emperor welcomes you.’

His hand snaked out. I fell on my knees and he patted me on the head affectionately, as if I was a spaniel, before adding insult to injury by brushing past me to greet Acerronia and Creperius.

‘Oh, you can get up now, Parmenon,’ he called over his shoulder.

I got to my feet, embarrassed by the mocking laughter from the small group which had accompanied Nero. They were all there. Seneca, the self-proclaimed great philosopher, grasping the folds of his toga as if he was to deliver a panegyric from the rostrum — Seneca of the balding head with the thick heavy features of a wrestler. He did not join in the laughter but raised his hand in salutation. Beside him was Burrus, dressed in elegant half-armour, his severe face impassive under close-cropped hair, and a look of distaste on his thin lips. He was a born soldier and ever ready to act the part. Tigellinus, dark as a Nubian, thin-featured, his eyes bright with malice, and that constant smirk on his ugly lips. A figure came from behind him: Anicetus, small, sallow-faced, dressed in a purple gold-lined toga, his arms hanging down like those of a monkey; the deep lines on each side of his mouth only increased the likeness. He’d led the laughter. My heart froze. I had forgotten about Anicetus: as Admiral of the fleet based at Misenum, he was one of Nero’s ‘masters of the sea’. He was the Emperor’s former tutor and he hated Agrippina with all the passion of his evil soul. For a short while I caught all their enmity, malice and hostility. From the likes of Anicetus, it came hot and bubbling; from Seneca and Burrus, it was cold and businesslike.

Behind me Nero was calling Agrippina the ‘best of mothers’ and profusely thanking the Praetorians and the captain of the bireme. It was all pretence! The blue sky, the dark line of greenery, the white shingled beach, the laughter and the greetings were a sham. We’d entered a trap. This was a death chamber: Agrippina would be lucky if she left with her life. Nero, however, was cavorting about. A tray of cups were distributed and toasts exchanged. Nero led his mother off, his arm round her waist, his head resting on her shoulder. They made their way from the beach up to the waiting litters, where the silk folds were pulled aside. Nero solicitously helped his mother up and climbed in with her. The Praetorian Guards, resplendent in their armour, circled it in a ring of steel. Tigellinus cracked a joke, and Anicetus bawled with laughter. Catching the word ‘litter’, I knew that they were resurrecting the old scandal that Agrippina had tried to seduce her own son whilst riding in a litter through Rome. The procession moved off, along the tree-lined trackway towards the imperial villa. Acerronia and Creperius took advantage of a second litter, but I decided to walk. Seneca and the others put as much distance between themselves and me as possible, but Burrus hung back. I decided not to waste time on niceties.

‘How dangerous is it?’ I asked. ‘Has the Augusta anything to fear from you?’

Burrus grabbed my wrist and squeezed it tightly. ‘Remember this, Parmenon,’ he whispered back, his dark brown eyes unblinking. ‘No soldier of mine will lift a sword against the daughter of Germanicus.’

‘But others might!’

‘I can only answer for Burrus,’ the Praetorian Prefect replied, ‘not the rest of the world.’ He released my wrist and walked quickly to join the rest.

We reached the tree-line and entered the broad avenue which cut through to the imperial villa. It was the first time I had been there since Nero had spent a lavish fortune turning it into a palace of the Gods. There were marble columns, glittering pavilions, gleaming white stone statues, gardens filled with every possible variety of shrub and tree. Torches and lamps were carefully placed to fend off the darkness. Everywhere, because of the feast, stood statues of Minerva in copper and bronze, garlanded with leaves and fresh flowers.

Agrippina and her household were given their own pavilion in the imperial grounds. If show was anything to go by, Nero did regard her as the ‘best of mothers’. No expense had been spared, no honour ignored. Even Agrippina was impressed by the sumptuous luxury of her reception and the quarters provided. The walls and floors of the pavilion were adorned with mosaics or lined with rare marble and mother-of-pearl. Exquisite diamonds, specially imported from the mountains of Asia Minor, had been lavishly used to decorate her private apartment. Agrippina’s bed was of scented wood, inlaid with gold and covered with the richest oriental tapestries, embroidered with pearls from Palestine in Arabesque designs. The walls of this luxurious bedchamber were lined with panelling, containing revolving tablets of ivory. These were set on pivots and could be turned to display different pictures. In the ceiling, a hidden machine could, at a touch, spray perfumes, whilst through the room ran a special conduit full of fragrant water. Agrippina was ecstatic. She really believed such opulence was an eloquent testimony to Nero’s love for her. The Emperor himself escorted her into the pavilion and showed her its glory before making his farewell, adding that we would all meet at a specially prepared banquet that evening.

‘You see!’ Agrippina exclaimed, once the imperial party had left. ‘Don’t you see, Parmenon, this is a fresh beginning.’

‘We are to return to Rome?’

‘We are to return to Rome.’ She smiled and, clapping her hands, shouted to the servants and slaves to make her quarters ready.

I supervised the baggage being brought in. I had a quiet word with Acerronia and Creperius. Everything was to be checked — the wine, the perfume, the sheets, the coverlets — for any trace of poison. I went outside. Dusk had fallen but the garden lights shed a golden glow, and I glimpsed armour: Burrus had apparently ringed Domina’s pavilion with a suitable guard. I trusted the Prefect but what of Nero?

Agrippina spent the rest of the day preparing herself. She bathed in the marble tub, Acerronia rubbing precious cream and perfume into her skin. She piled her hair up, holding it in place with jewelled pins and small ivory combs. She dressed in a white stola fringed with purple and gold, a lapis lazuli gorget round her throat, gold bangles on her wrists and ankles. She looked beautiful and spun on her heel, hands extended.

‘Look, Parmenon!’ she cried. ‘How can any son resist a mother like this?’

I could have wept at the sheer pathos. Agrippina looked as brilliant as some rare jewel. Yet here was the great Domina, Agrippina, daughter of Germanicus, mother of the Emperor of Rome, having to act like a courtesan to obtain what was naturally hers, Nero’s affections.

The Emperor, of course, played his part well and responded in kind. We dined in a special pavilion of silken cloth, the air sweet with roses and honey-suckle. The tables were arranged in a horse-shoe fashion with couches, covered in gold and silver cloth, ranged along the side. Torches, candelabra and scented oil lamps lit the darkness and, as Nero proclaimed, created an artificial day in Agrippina’s honour. He escorted her to the place of glory. I was left at the foot of the table. I was glad to be there, so that I had a good view of the rest. If Agrippina had decided to gather all her enemies together in one place, she couldn’t have done better. Seneca, Tigellinus, Burrus, Anicetus and, of course, smooth-skinned Otho smirking behind his hand. Only the golden Poppea was absent.

Musicians in the background provided music. Jugs of wine were circulated once again, and toasts were made. I saw Nero wink down the table at Anicetus and my blood ran cold. This feast may begin with laughter but it would end in tears, even death. I tried to appear distracted, as if more concerned with the nearby aviaries carved in the fashion of a temple, full of rare singing-birds, or the marble basins full of live fish which the guests could pick out for cooking. Servants and slaves of both sexes, the most beautiful Rome could supply, solicitously tended to every want. I tried to catch Agrippina’s eye but it was futile. She was only interested in Nero. As far as she was concerned, everything else was like the air we breathe, hardly to be noticed.

At last the banquet itself began. Fish, poultry and game were brought in, followed by a roast pig stuffed with live quails which flew away when the chef slit its belly. A troop of cooks entered, preceded by a line of musicians playing flutes. The chef carried a whole boar on a huge silver salver. When this too was cut, it was seen to be stuffed with pheasants, inside which were quails, which in turn were filled with ortolans. After each course the attendants returned, allowing us to wash our hands and face in perfumed water.

We then solemnly processed to a second pavilion where the tables were even more sumptuously laid out. From the poles hung golden lamps in which burned scented oils. We were crowned with roses and, behind each guest, a slave wafted perfumed feather fans. Sherberts were served, mixed with snow and tinged with the lightest of white wines. Dancers from Antioch entered and performed a sensuous ballet to the lilting tunes of zithers and flutes. The evening became more raucous. Guests got to their feet, staggered outside to be sick and returned to gorge themselves even more. Others helped themselves to the dancers or slave girls. In the corner of the pavilion Otho made noisy love to one of the slave girls whilst another looked on and encouraged the coupling pair. Creperius and Acerronia sat opposite me, both of them deep in their cups. I wondered if their wine had been laced with some potion or powder. I ate and drank nothing. All I was aware of were flushed, sweaty faces, glittering eyes, raucous music and the shouts and cries of the revellers. Like all the guests, I had been searched to ensure I carried no arms but I’d managed to seize a carving knife and place it under my couch. All the time I watched Nero and his mother. Sometimes they kissed, rubbed noses, held each other’s hands. On one occasion Nero shared her couch and laid his head on her breast. I could tell he was playing a part for the onlookers. Now and again Nero would flash a sly smirk at one of his cronies. They, in turn, tried to draw me into conversation, wishing to share a joke or tidbits of gossip from Rome.

Anicetus came and sat on the edge of my couch, cradling his wine cup, his little monkey face wreathed in a shifty grin.

‘You are solemn, Parmenon,’ he slurred.

‘I’m worried, Anicetus.’ I pulled myself further up. ‘Do I need to be worried?’

‘Worried?’ Anicetus mocked. ‘Parmenon, why should you worry? Here is food, wine, music and, above all, the company of your Emperor!’

I smiled at the trap.

‘The Emperor is always in my thoughts,’ I retorted. ‘He is the beginning, end and substance of my being. I am, as you know, the Emperor’s most loyal servant. Do we have anything to fear, Anicetus?’

He rose, tapped me patronisingly on the shoulder and walked away.

A slave girl came up and crouched beside me. She was a mere child really and I could tell from her olive skin and sloe eyes that she was Egyptian. She offered to share my couch, but when I shook my head, she pouted and walked away. My eyes were only for Nero and his mother. The night seemed to drag on for an eternity. At last the wine had its effect: one by one the guests succumbed, sprawled on couches or on the floor. Nero was no different. Agrippina eventually looked in my direction. Just for a moment her mask slipped. Perhaps she’d realised her son’s extravagant praises were as false as they were empty. She smiled, gently extricated herself from her son’s drunken embrace and got to her feet. I accompanied her out into the perfumed darkness.

‘Was there ever such a feast, Parmenon?’ she called out over her shoulder. ‘Was there ever such a son?’

‘Domina!’ I urged, coming up behind her. ‘Domina!’ I hissed, seizing her wrist.

She dragged it away and lifted her hands, fingers splayed. In the light of the torches her eyes had a hard look. She brought her other hand up as if in prayer.

‘Please don’t, Parmenon! Don’t spoil it for me. If I am to go into the dark, let me go happy.’ She touched the side of her head. ‘Let me take my dreams with me.’

And, spinning on her heel, she walked into the night. I trailed behind to make sure but she reached her pavilion safely. The waiting slaves, holding torches, escorted her in. I noticed the guards sheltering under the trees and recalled Burrus’s words, ‘No soldier of mine would draw their sword against the daughter of Germanicus.’ I was about to walk away when I heard a rustling in the bushes and paused.

‘Don’t look round!’ a voice whispered hoarsely. ‘Just listen!’

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Don’t talk, just listen!’ The voice paused. ‘“Oak and triple bronze”,’ it whispered, ‘“must have encircled the heart of the man who first committed a frail boat to the cruel sea”.’

I recognised the quotation from one of Horace’s odes.

‘Is that all?’ I called back.

‘“Brute force, without judgement, collapses under its own weight”.’

Another quotation! There was a faint rustling and the mysterious messenger had left. I stood, my hand going to my mouth. That bitch Salvara! She was obviously in Nero’s pay, and had only to wait for Agrippina to send for her. She’d done exactly what that copper-headed monster had told her to. Without her words, Agrippina would never have come to Baiae. Salvara had blinded my mistress, given her false hope, baited the trap and Agrippina had walked straight into it. The two quotations were a warning: put together, it became clear something dreadful was to happen at sea. Even Salvara’s reference to a ‘master of the sea’ agreed with this. An accident, in fact murder, was planned. Once it was over, Salvara’s warnings would be used to demonstrate that Agrippina’s tragic death was fated. Years later, I caught up with the old bitch and cut her throat.

I spent that night tossing and turning. Once it was daylight, I went for a walk in the mist-strewn gardens. The musicians had long retired whilst the slaves and servants were helping themselves to the remains of the feast. Of the revellers there was no sign, but a chamberlain assured me that they had all been carried to their beds. I went across to Agrippina’s villa: she, too, was sleeping.

The rest of that day was what I’d call a ghost day. The sun didn’t show itself till the afternoon. Matters were not helped by an eerie atmosphere in the imperial villa. Nero didn’t appear until, white-faced and red-eyed, he paid a courtesy visit to Agrippina. They cooed and laughed together until he left, saying the bireme would be ready later that day to return my mistress to her villa at Antium.

‘From there,’ Agrippina excitedly explained, ‘I travel to Rome. Apartments have been prepared for me in the Palatine Palace. We’ve had enough of the countryside, eh, Parmenon?’

She gave me a warning look. I nodded and made preparations to leave.

Darkness had fallen by the time we congregated on the beach. Two lines of Praetorians held torches to light the way along the shingle. It was a lovely, cloudless night, with the moon riding high and a stiff sea breeze proving a welcome relief after the perfumed air of the villa. I had not attended the small leaving banquet, which Nero had stated was a private affair. He escorted his mother down to the boat, holding her affectionately by the hand. The rest of the coterie gathered around as Nero embraced his mother, kissing her lips and bosom.

‘These breasts,’ he murmured, ‘once suckled me.’

Members of the court also made their farewells. They all ignored me except Burrus who clasped my hand and wished me health. I was about to pull away when he dragged me closer.

‘“With you”,’ he whispered, ‘“I would willingly live! With you I would willingly die!”’

I couldn’t make out his face in the darkness yet I recognised this further quotation from Horace. Danger was all about us.

‘Iacta alea est!’ I replied. ‘The die is cast!’

I joined Agrippina and the rest as we were taken out to the waiting bireme. I clambered aboard and stared around. The ship seemed seaworthy enough but no Praetorians were present and the captain and the pilot were not dressed in their usual uniform but in simple tunics and sandals. I glanced back towards the beach, where a ring of torches surrounded the would-be murderers. Even before it happened, I knew where the danger would come from. Agrippina stood in the prow, eyes fixed on the shore. Nero called out something. The breeze caught his words but it didn’t conceal the mocking laughter. Agrippina blew kisses and walked away to take her place on a couch under an awning in the stern.

Orders were rapped out, and the ship glided silently round. The slop of oars sliced the water rhythmically, each stroke measured by the captain marking the time. A breeze wafted across to us the smell of pines and perfume. The bireme picked up speed, cutting through the water. As the torchlight on the beach disappeared, a strange silence descended. Agrippina lay on the couch under the awning, with Acerronia kneeling on one side, and Creperius on the other. I walked along the ship, my eyes searching every corner. I could see nothing wrong. Had it been built to capsize? But that would endanger the lives of the crew as well. Were they in the plot?

‘Parmenon!’ Agrippina called. ‘Stop stalking like a cat, you are making me nervous.’

I ignored her. She called again, as I climbed the steps to where the captain and pilot stood. I tried to engage them in conversation, but they busied themselves about their duties. I walked to the rail and stared at the approaching bank of mist.

‘Why did no Praetorians accompany us?’ I asked. ‘A guard of honour?’

‘I don’t know. I was just given my orders,’ the captain grumbled.

I left the platform and went down the steps. Agrippina and Acerronia were discussing the events of the night before. Now and again Domina would break off to give instructions to Creperius over what to pack when they left for Rome. She was annoyed with me. I still felt tense at the sense of pressing danger. I looked up, to see that the captain had moved to the rail, and was staring out into the night. He carried a lantern lashed to a pole. Was he signalling?

‘Domina!’ I hissed.

‘Parmenon, either be sick, go to sleep, or sit down!’

The sea breeze shifted. I heard a slight creak, and the sound of oars. The captain on the bridge was waving the lantern. I raced up the steps and ran to the rail, staring out into the night. As the mist parted, I gasped in terror. A huge warship, a massive trireme, oars out, its prow carved in the shape of the cruel face of an eagle, was bearing down, intent on ramming the bireme.

‘Agrippina!’ I screamed.

Commotion broke out below, where some of the rowers had now glimpsed the monster which was about to smash us. I heard a sound behind and turned, drawing my dagger. Without hesitation, I thrust it straight into the pilot’s stomach. The half-raised club dropped from his hand as he slumped, choking on his blood. The captain lunged, flinging the lantern at me. I ducked to one side and lashed out with the dagger, cutting a deep jagged slash across his chest. I ran down the steps, but it was too late: the trireme struck us with a mighty crash. The awning covering Agrippina collapsed, and one of the poles dealt Creperius an ugly blow on the side of his head. I could do little for him. I pulled the awning up and dragged Agrippina from her couch. Acerronia was screaming, and I slapped her on the face, pulling her to the side. Figures loomed out of the darkness. The trireme was now pushing the bireme, threatening to either tip it over or crush it beneath its weight. The night air was rent with screams. I ripped Agrippina’s stola from her shoulders, pushed to the side of the bireme, already dangerously low in the water, and tipped her over. Acerronia and I joined her in the cold water.

‘Swim!’ I screamed.

Agrippina needed no second bidding. Light and swift as a dolphin, she struck out, putting as much distance between herself and the sinking bireme as possible. I followed, but Acerronia, behind me, was spluttering and calling out. Agrippina was a splendid swimmer, but Acerronia was not. I glanced back, saw lantern lights and heard the calls of officers on the trireme. Treading water, I saw Acerronia panic. She swam back towards the trireme, straight into the pool of light thrown by the torches and lanterns.

‘Help me!’ she screamed. ‘Help! I am the Empress!’

An oar moved towards her: the usual tactic employed to drag a man from the sea. Acerronia swam towards it. The oar moved viciously like a club and, instead of allowing Acerronia to grasp it, struck her viciously on the side of the head. Acerronia spun round. For a few seconds I glimpsed her white face above the water before she sank. Agrippina was calling out to me. I swam in the direction of her voice.

‘An accident?’ she spluttered.

‘Murder,’ I replied.

I seized her by the arm, allowing the waves to float us away from the trireme. I stared out, but the bank of mist had now thickened. I caught glimpses of distant lights and recalled that the pearl fishermen often came out here at night. I struck out in their direction, Agrippina following. The fishermen already knew something was wrong. As one of their craft, a torch in its prow, came thrusting through the water towards us, we called out. Voices replied. I grasped an oar, making sure Agrippina did likewise and strong burly hands plucked us from the sea.

The oyster men had no idea whom they had picked up, until Agrippina stretched out her hand, displaying the imperial ring. She was nursing a wounded shoulder and a cut to her cheek, but the physical wounds were nothing to those inflicted on her soul. She sat in the boat, a haggard, ageing woman, dripping with sea water, staring sightlessly into the darkness. I bribed the fishermen with some of the coins I still had in a purse stitched to my belt to cross the bay into the Lucrine Lake. They happily agreed, navigating its narrow channel and crossing a sand bar which protected us against pursuit. We landed safely, and, half-carrying Agrippina, I staggered along the beach and up the trackway to her own villa. I aroused the servants, who took one look at Agrippina and knew what had happened. Even as I shouted orders, most of them backed away, owl-eyed, pale-faced, and within the hour most of them had fled. I placed Agrippina in the triclinium and brought metal dishes full of burning charcoal, towels, napkins and heavy military cloaks from the stores. I made her strip off, then dried and changed her before wrapping a blanket round her. I warmed some wine and forced her to drink. The villa fell quiet except for the occasional patter of feet, and the howling of a dog. Agrippina sipped at the wine before being violently sick. I moved her to another part of the room, where we sat on stools.

‘You are still wet,’ she murmured. ‘Dry yourself off.’

I stripped, changed, wrapped one of the blankets round me and rejoined her. Agrippina had now grown more composed. She stared out through the window at the starlit sky.

‘We are creatures of the night, Parmenon,’ she whispered. ‘It’s finished, isn’t it?’

‘It’s always been finished,’ I replied. ‘Ever since Poppea walked into Nero’s court.’

She sighed. ‘They’ll have to complete the job, Parmenon. They won’t let it rest. The slaves and servants have fled. Poor Acerronia.’ A tear trickled down her kohl-smeared cheek. ‘And Creperius, gone with the rest.’ She nudged me. ‘You should flee too. They’ll kill you. They won’t allow any witnesses to survive.’

‘I’ll stay. My life, Domina, is yours.’

She turned, her eyes wrinkled up in a smile, that dazzingly beautiful woman I’d met so many years earlier.

‘You are good, Parmenon.’

She kissed me lightly on the lips and brushed my face with the tip of her finger.

‘If I had listened to you. .’

‘You can still do that,’ I urged. ‘You could flee, seek refuge with the legions.’ My voice faltered.

She pressed a finger against my lips.

‘You and I both know that’s not possible. Every road and trackway will be watched and sealed.’ She put down her wine and stretched her hands towards the charcoal brazier. ‘Isn’t it strange, Parmenon? We first met on the feast of Minerva, at the games in the amphitheatre near the Campus Marius.’

I cradled my own cup. My mind going back. .