The tension eased a bit.
“Do you know the meaning of the word, Nero?”
He lowered his eyes as he answered, “No, not exactly.”
“Well, ril tell you its meaning before you use it again so indiscriminately. A whore is a man or a woman who uses his body unfaithfully, who loans it out to the pleasure of any and all. Do you understand what I’m telling you? A whore is one who makes love with more than his or her own mate, whether for profit or pleasure.”
Nero looked quizzically at his mother. “Then a whore isn’t really a bad person at all.”
Agrippina raged at him. “What do you mean? Hasn’t my explanation penetrated that dense skull of yours?”
Without giving proper caution to his words, Nero blurted out, “How can a whore be a bad person, if you’re one? When you were married to Crispus and since, you’ve often given your body to other men.”
Her slap was so vicious that Nero tumbled backward, striking his head on a marble column in the hall. He lay stunned on the floor as Agrippina glowered down at him.
She thrust her finger in his face as she spoke. “I never want to hear that word from your mouth again! And what I do as a grown woman is of no concern to you. Nor are you to judge my acts, you sneaking little son of a bastard! You’ll return now to your room and remain there alone and without food or drink until the funeral. Think over what I’ve said, Nero. Your future may depend on your understanding of it. I make no move without a purpose.”
Agrippina turned and left the stunned Nero still sprawled on the floor.
The emperor, taking Agrippina’s advice, decided that Messalina’s funeral should take place as quickly and un-obtrusively as possible. Her body was carried to her bedchamber, where the slave Sutra bathed it and scented it with fragrant oils. She gowned her dead mistress in a toga of royal purple trimmed in gold. Messalina’s hair was piled high and woven with gold ropes and jewels. When all was ready, she was laid in state in the atrium of the villa near the lararium, where the house gods were enshrined in a templelike structure of marble and gold.
When the time arrived, the family gathered before the elaborately prepared remains. Nero, only recently released from his room for the funeral rites, looked about him with interest.
Claudius, dressed in his purple and gold-fringed toga of state, looked drained and tired. His shoulders slumped. Next to him Agrippina stood spear-shaft straight, looking fresh and poised. Britannicus and Octavia stood beside their father, both dressed in the ceremonial tunics. Britannicus was red-eyed, his cheeks puffy with prolonged weeping. Octavia, on the other hand, showed no emotion now at all. If anything, Nero thought, there seemed a touch of triumph in her bearing. He wondered at this sudden transformation from her grief-stricken state of earlier in the day. Perhaps it was all show for the benefit of her brother. Nero noticed that she held his hand as if he were her child.
Then the ceremony began. Three priests entered wearing hooded robes of white, along with the old Vestal Virgin, Vibidia, a veil hiding most of her face. Nero carefully controlled his urge to smile at the ludicrous sight of the most holy of all the virgins ministering to the corpse of the “whore.”
Having sprinkled Messalina’s remains with sacred water and oil, and burned incense before the shrine, one of the priests produced a gleaming golden knife from the folds of his robe. With one deft stroke, he severed the little finger from the lifeless hand. A slight gasp came from one of the children. Nero couldn’t tell if it was from Britannicus or Octavia. He felt only fascination at watching this part of the ceremony. The finger he knew would be buried while the rest of the remains were consumed on the funeral pyre, and the ashes encased in an urn.
Then he caught sight of another figure standing in the shadow behind a column—the slave girl Acte. It had been her gasp he’d heard. By leaning back ever so gently, he could see her out of the corner of his eye. The old familiar ache stirred inside him. But why was she alone, of all the household slaves, allowed into the atrium for the family ceremonies?
While the priests and the Vestal continued with their chants and sprinklings, Nero’s attention was held totally by the sight of Acte’s raven hair and olive skin. Even from a distance, Nero could see tears brimming in her eyes. But unlike the other mourners, she became more beautiful in grief. The youthful curve of her figure caused a throbbing in Nero’s brain. What were these sensations which she alone could so arouse in him? Nero only knew that he couldn’t force his eyes away from her.
The blare of a horn announced the end of the rites. Six black Nubians in gold-trimmed tunics entered the atrium and carefully lifted the litter of carved and embossed olive wood to carry it to the pyre. The trumpeter marched ahead calling all the slaves to the final scene.
The Nubians carried the litter with the glittering corpse high in the air. Behind it followed her husband and children along with Agrippina and Nero. At the end of the procession came the slaves—the only ones in the parade to exhibit their mourning vocally. Their wails and moans sent a covey of doves skyward in a flurry of bright white against the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean sky. At this the slaves exclaimed in awe, “Look, the spirit of our Lady Messalina flies heavenward even now. A good omen!”
Nero thought the pyre’s site well chosen. It stood on the seashore near the fisherman’s shack where she should have met her end at his mother’s hand. He glanced about him. Silius was dead, but perhaps Getio lurked about even now, watching as his lover was borne to her final rest. The thought amused Nero.
As the bearers placed the litter carefully upon the pyre, each member of the family and each slave placed some offering there to be burned for her spirit’s use in the life beyond. When the last vase, statuette, and flagon of wine had been positioned, the priests set the pyre to torch.
A hot wind fanned the flames, which leaped upward in seconds, engulfing the remains in black smoke and licking tongues of fire. The odor of the burning dead was fortunately swept out to sea on the wind. All stood in silence until the empress was nothing more than a pile of smoldering ashes.
Then the emperor stepped forward to speak. “I wish to—it has been decided—” He fumbled over the words and seemed about to drop from exhaustion. Nero watched as his mother in her pure-white flowing gown went to support her uncle.
Her words betrayed no emotion as she spoke them clearly and for all to hear. “It is your emperor’s wish that the ashes of his empress not be imprisoned in an urn, but that they be scattered into the cleansing waters of the sea. So be it.”
The priests distributed spades to all present, including Claudius. With effort he tossed a spadeful of his wife’s still-smoldering ashes into the bay. The waters hissed as they received the small burden.
Nero watched the priests and old Vibidia follow the emperor’s lead, and then Octavia and Britannicus carry their share. Next, his mother advanced toward the pyre, her spade in hand. When Nero failed to follow, she tossed a withering glance over her shoulder at him. He joined her. Nero noticed that at the seaside, out of the vision of the others, his mother allowed a broad smile to light her face for an instant. She seemed more than pleased to be dumping what remained of her rival into the sea. It dawned on him that this was the reason for the unorthodox burial. It was not Messalina’s wish nor the emperor’s, but his mother’s idea. How clever she was! The emperor wouldn’t even have an urn of dead ashes left to remind him of the love he had had for his wife.
Nero glanced up admiringly at his now solemn-faced mother as they returned to the others. She never made a move without a reason. She’d told him so and now he believed it. Every word she spoke, every expression she showed, had purpose behind it. He could learn much from her.
Acte was next to carry her spade of ashes. She was dressed more in the manner of Octavia than in that of the other slave women. Something had happened to her, but Nero had no idea what. His blood pounded at the sight of her lithe figure seeming to float to the shore where the gentle waves lappe
d at her silver-sandaled feet.
While the slaves were left to their task of sprinkling the remaining ashes, the priests led the family and Acte up into the garden. The head priest, holding an alabaster box shaped like a miniature coffin in his hand, held it first to the emperor, who kissed the contents and then passed the box on. Each in his or her turn placed a kiss there in imitation of the emperor’s action.
Nero watched as his mother took the box. The only sign of annoyance was a flicker in her green eyes which none of the others noticed. She then handed the box to Nero. His stomach turned as he gazed into the small coffin. There, on a pillow of gold-embroidered satin, lay the little finger, all that remained of Messalina. He stared in horror at the gray-white flesh and the gold ring circling it just above the place where it had been severed from the hand. The nail had been painted with a rose-blush enamel so that the blue of death wouldn’t show there. How could he kiss this hideous thing?
Feeling his mother’s gaze on him, he closed his eyes and brushed the opening of the box with his lips, carefully avoiding contact with the obscene object inside.
Then he passed it on gratefully to the one next in line, Acte. As their hands touched he was stunned by the impact of her nearness. His knees went weak and he felt burning hot, yet a chill ran through him.
From Acte the box passed to the Vestal Virgin, who coated its edges with hot wax, holding the lid tight until the seal dried. Then, placing the box in an already prepared miniature grave, she spaded it over with earth. The ceremony ended with the sprinkling of more holy water and oils on the ground.
Late that night, long after the funeral banquet was over and the emperor and all others had retired to their chambers, Nero was awakened by the light tread of footsteps outside on the terrace. He crept to the window, trying not to awaken the sleeping Dorph.
There in the garden a figure stooped over the spot where the tiny coffin had been buried. Nero eased himself out of the window, wondering if this might be the true spirit of Messalina arising from her grave in the light of the moon. But, no! This was no ghost, it was another woman digging into the grave, exhuming the buried finger. At length, she stood erect and spoke quietly to the box. Nero recognized his mother.
“So, Messalina, I have my final triumph. Without burial and with your ashes sprinkled for the fishes to eat, your spirit will have no rest through all eternity.”
Agrippina turned away from the villa and toward the stock pens. Nero followed, more curious now.
The foul odor of the swine pen found his nostrils before Nero realized where he was. His mother stood directly before the filthy creatures and spoke to them in an intimate tone.
“I bring you all that remains of your empress—ruler of hogs and whores.”
Removing the finger from the box and the ring from the finger, she tossed the last of Messalina into the pen.
“I’m sorry there isn’t enough for all.”
The dozen or so swine squealed and grunted over the tidbit tossed to them. Two of the largest fought the others off and shared the tempting morsel.
Turning, with a look of complete satisfaction on her face, Agrippina ran back to the villa, concealing the box and the ring in the folds of her cloak.
So ended Messalina, just twenty-six years after her birth.
Four
After his wife’s funeral, Claudius extended his stay at the villa at Baiae.
The emperor aged much in the following weeks in spite of the concentrated efforts of his niece, to comfort him. When dark dreams haunted him and he screamed out, Agrippina was at his bedside to cool his brow and whisper reassurances. When, in misery and guilt, he walked the shore where Messalina’s ashes had been scattered, Agrippina was beside him to comfort him and lend support when he faltered.
How well she acted her part as partner in his grief, Nero thought. But how long must it go on? He hadn’t had a chance to be with her for such a long time, and he felt neglected. So Nero spied on them everywhere.
He overheard his mother sweetly suggest that her uncle remarry as soon as possible. Rumors were rampant that Messalina had made a fool of Claudius. He must say that he knew of her many lovers but had kept silent to protect his children. Moreover, Agrippina insisted, the emperor couldn’t afford to mourn over his unfaithful wife any longer. He must announce his plan to remarry as soon as a suitable lady to serve as empress could be found. Agrippina, of course, would help him choose.
The emperor’s announcement of his intention to remarry caused a great furor. “Who will be our next empress?” was the question heard everywhere.
Over the next few weeks the Senate and other advisers submitted lists of names to the emperor. But Agrippina was always quick to point out the unsuitability of each candidate. Even the wealthiest and most prominent choice, Lollia Paulina, was dismissed by her—over Narcissus’s objections—as one of Caligula’s castoffs. Agrippina already knew who the next empress would be. How dense the emperor was!
Barely a month after Messalina’s death, Nero watched his mother make her seemingly impossible plan possible. He had been lurking in the hallway near the triclinium, where she and Claudius had just finished a quiet supper.
Agrippina no longer wore her mourning clothes, professing a desire to cheer the emperor. This evening she had on an emerald-green stola embroidered with gold. One shoulder was caught with an exquisite peacock brooch of glittering emeralds, sapphires and rubies. Even from where he hid, Nero could see that the green gown brought out the matching flecks in her amber eyes.
The emperor had stretched out on his couch of rich crimson brocade. Agrippina, on the steps, fed him grapes, which she carefully peeled one by one. His expression these days seemed to spark of new life, Nero noted.
Laying aside the silver bowl of grapes, Agrippina moved onto the couch. This was a liberty she wouldn’t have taken with others present. She gently stroked his cheek.
“Claudius, my dear love, there is a way,” she said huskily.
Nero felt sick as the emperor took his mother into his arms. Hot flames and cold chills clashed within him as their lips met. Nero’s mind screamed, No! No! You can’t have her! She’s mine! But his voice remained silent.
“Tell me, dearest, what way is there for us?” Claudius asked. “I’m your uncle. It is forbidden by the Laws of Augustus.”
He touched her face, her throat, her breasts. His face was warm with desire.
Agrippina’s long tapering fingers curled through his sparse hair, her ring giving off a glow of death blue. “You are emperor, Claudius. The citizens have suffered long under the rigid and outdated Laws of Augustus. You would be a hero to them if you convinced the Senate to have these old restrictions removed.” She lowered her eyes meekly. “But, of course, you’re the one in charge. It’s your decision. What do I know about laws and politics?”
Nero snickered behind his hand. What, indeed?
Claudius suddenly sat upright. “Well, the emperor has decided to leave tomorrow for Rome. I’ve spent enough time here in seclusion. The Empire must be governed.” He paused. “My first order of business will be a closer view of the Augustan Laws as they apply to modern-day Rome.”
The triumph in Claudius’s eyes and voice was complete. He had found a way! Her uncle basked in the light of his own self-satisfaction as Agrippina snuggled closer to him on the couch. From his hiding place Nero beamed with pride. His mother belonged to no man. Without a sound Nero slipped down the hallway and back to his room. Finding Dorph in his bed, he pushed the slave aside. He would not sully his flesh with a simple slave boy tonight. Lying in bed, he went over the evening’s events as he stared up at the starry dome of his chamber. He found again the one tile-star which outshone all the rest. There, Nero thought, is my mother, the next Empress of Rome. He fell asleep seeing her before him. He felt at peace, knowing his mother was doing this all for him and him alone.
On the brocade couch next to Claudius, Agrippina smiled to herself. As she del
icately stroked the emperor’s cheek she thought of the great palace of the Caesars miles away, shining in the glow of Apollo’s sun. Soon, when the laws were changed, this would be her home. Hers and Nero’s.
Her luxurious reverie was interrupted by Claudius’s voice. “My dearest, now that I’ve decided what to do about our future, won’t you join me in my chamber tonight? It may be weeks before I see you again.”
Agrippina looked up at him. “No, my emperor. I mustn’t.” At his sudden look of hurt she added, “The slaves have eyes to see all and tongues to tell all. How would it look for me, especially now, to be in your bedchamber? The news would no doubt reach Rome before you. And such talk could ruin our plans. I don’t turn away from you willingly, my love. You know that.”
The emperor shook his head, smiled, and placed a kiss on Agrippina’s brow. “Were women allowed to be senators, you would outshine them all. Your logic is impeccable. And you are, of course, right, my dearest. As hard as it is I shall have to wait.” He toyed with her hair. “I must warn you, though, I can’t control what I do in my dreams. And you can rest assured that I shall conjure up your warm and fragrant body next to mine tonight. Even the slaves can’t intrude upon a man’s fantasies.”
“Nor those of a woman, the gods be thanked,” Agrippina answered. “For were it possible for others to know my dreams they would surely brand me wanton.”
The emperor grew weak at her words. Taking her arms, he kissed his way up one and then the other. Then, holding her close in a lingering embrace, he announced abruptly, “I can’t stay beside you any longer. This is torture. Go to your chamber now and meet me in your dreams. I’ll be waiting.”
Claudius rose from the couch and walked stiffly away. He imagined the melting smile upon her lips to be for him alone. Little did he suspect that the lover she awaited was power—the power only he could provide her.
With the first light of dawn, the emperor and his retinue prepared to depart. He left behind fifty of his guards to watch over Agrippina. She stood in the garden next to a bubbling fountain where water spouted from the shining breasts of a marble nymph. Wrapped in her stola of purest white edged in silver, Agrippina shimmered in the reflection of the pool.
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