‘If they won’t eat,’ she screamed, ‘then let the bastards drink!’
Nero’s spies amongst the servants were delighted at this outburst. More strange stories circulated: a strange black dog was seen bounding across the villa gardens; a snake fell from a roof beam; a cock crowed in the dead of night.
I tried to divert Agrippina. One evening I hired one of those wandering physicians, more comical than a clown. This character claimed to be a Greek who followed the teachings of Cato. I brought him into the triclinium, where Agrippina and Acerronia were nibbling at roast meat and copiously drinking wine.
‘Tell the Domina,’ I said to the Greek, ‘about your theory.’
Well, I tell you this, the charlatan was better than a tonic. He called himself Aeshcypolus, claimed to have studied in Athens where be became a devout disciple of that old kill-joy Cato. I knew what was coming next. The rogue theatrically gestured at the platters and plates strewn across the tables.
‘Don’t eat that rubbish,’ he pronounced. ‘Drink juniper-wood wine and keep a pomegranate close by to combat colic and worms.’
Agrippina’s face was a treat. She gaped open mouthed.
‘Cabbage!’ the man trumpeted. ‘Eat cabbage, Domina! It eases the bowels and facilitates urination. Carefully washed and crushed, cabbage will cure ulcers and open sores and dispel tumours. Fried in hot fat, and taken on an empty stomach, cabbage will cure insomnia. Cabbage juice will also cure deafness and, if the same is rubbed on your private parts, heightens sexual pleasure . . .’
Agrippina threw her head back and bellowed with laughter. It was marvellous to see and hear: a truly merry laugh which began in the stomach, echoed through her chest and throat and brought life back to the eyes and face. Acerronia joined in. It became so infectious that I sat down on the edge of a couch, my shoulders shaking. I threw a purse at Aeschypolus and told the silly bugger he could sleep in one of the stables.
‘See, I told you,’ the fellow lugubriously added as I steered him towards the door. ‘Even the mention of a cabbage will dispel the humours and lift depression.’
Well, that was too much for Agrippina. She was laughing so much she slipped onto the floor. I got rid of Aeshcypolus and returned to the triclinium. Agrippina’s face was a joy to see. The tears rolled down her cheeks in long black lines of kohl. She got up and washed her face in lotus water, wiping herself carefully. She tried to thank me, took one look at my face and burst out laughing again. A good hour passed before she composed herself. Our wandering physician had released the tension which was tearing her soul apart. At last she composed herself, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin.
‘So much for auguries and portents!’
She caught her breath, her face serious. I asked if I should bring the cabbage doctor back.
‘No, no.’ Agrippina lifted her hand. ‘I’ve had enough, Parmenon. The laughter has helped. I thank you.’
She asked Acerronia to fill three wine goblets with Falernian mixed with yolk of pigeon’s egg to clear any impurities. She lifted the jewelled goblet and toasted me with her eyes. She sipped, staring at the floor. The oil lamps began to gutter and go out. I started to call a slave but Agrippina tapped her hand against the cedar table.
‘I like the darkness,’ she whispered. She lifted her head and stared at me. ‘“Anything born of myself and Agrippina”,’ she declared, ‘“can only be odious and a public disaster”.’
‘That’s not true,’ I replied quickly. ‘It was vicious of your husband to say such a thing.’
‘My first husband,’ Agrippina pouted back. ‘Domitius Ahenobarbus. He was born drunk, and he died a drunk. What an ignoble end for a noble family. Anyway, that’s what he said when Nero was born.’
‘Perhaps he’d heard about the portents?’ Acerronia declared.
‘It was a difficult enough birth.’ Agrippina rolled the wine cup between her hands. ‘It was a breech delivery. The baby took days to come, and was eventually born on the eve of Saturnalia, feet first. The midwives had a field day clacking and tutting.’ She sighed. ‘An Egyptian soothsayer told me that Nero would become Emperor and kill his mother.’ She smiled through the tears in her eyes. ‘Do you know what I replied, Parmenon? Let him kill me as long as he rules!’ She laughed quietly. ‘Yes, it’s true, my son does come of rotten stock. Ahenobarbus means Bronze Beard: it suits Nero. What do the wits say? “Beard of bronze, face of iron, heart of lead”.’ She sipped from the wine.
‘Soothsayers are two a penny,’ I declared.
‘And don’t I know it!’ Agrippina retorted. ‘You can make signs and omens out of anything. You’ve heard the story, haven’t you? How when Nero was a boy that bitch Messalina sent assassins to smother him.’
‘Yes, yes, I’ve heard that,’ I scoffed. ‘A snake supposedly appeared and frightened them off. They thought it had been sent by the God Apollo.’
Agrippina chuckled deep in her throat.
‘Was it true?’ I insisted though I knew the answer. I’d only heard about this incident, whereas I was actually present the night Messalina truly did try to kill both Nero and his mother.
‘Yes and no.’ Agrippina laughed. ‘The assassins Messalina sent were cowards. They crept into my son’s room and saw the snake.’ She fluffed one of the cushions. ‘It was as harmless as a flea: one of those Egyptian house snakes you train to kill rats and mice.’ She saw the expression on my face and burst out laughing. ‘The rest of the rumour was due to me and those cowardly assassins weren’t going to contradict my story. So instead of one snake, there were half a dozen, long, curling, hissing pythons sent by the Lord Apollo.’ She made a rude sound with her lips and played with one of her pearl earrings. ‘Do you believe in the Gods, Parmenon? Come on,’ she urged. ‘Do you really believe in them or are you a secret follower of the Christus and his gaggle of mad-cap Jews and slaves? The gang who believe that their crucified God came back to life three days later. Do you believe such nonsense?’
‘No, I don’t. I don’t believe in the Gods, or the Elysian Fields, in Hades or the Underworld. How can we believe in a religion which elevates a man like Claudius to be a god. He couldn’t even piss straight.’ She laughed and then lifted her head as if listening carefully.
‘Why is it so silent?’ Acerronia murmured.
‘Like the grave, eh? That’s what happens after death, Pamenon, just a black nothingness, extinction!’
‘Do you regret anything?’ Acerronia asked, then bit her lip as if ashamed of her question.
‘Regret?’ Agrippina blew her cheeks out. ‘I wish I could meet my father the great Germanicus. I wish he was here now. He’d teach my son a few lessons. Or even my mother. When my father took over the legions in Germany, the soldiers mutinied. They were terrified the Germans would annihilate my father and cross the Rhine. Mother went on the threatened bridge, holding me or one of her other brood in her arms, and shouted at the soldiers to do their worst. “Burn it!” my mother taunted. “Kill me! Slay Germanicus’s child!”.’ Agrippina sipped from the goblet. ‘The soldiers listened to her. I once asked Mother what she would have done if they had fired the bridge. “Oh,” she replied. “I’d have jumped.” There’s one thing about our family.’ Agrippina leaned across and plucked at a grape. ‘We are good swimmers.’
Swimming, cabbages, Agrippina’s story in that shadowy triclinium are still fresh memories. Domina finished her wine and went off to sleep in her new bedchamber. I stayed behind with Acerronia, thinking that perhaps she might agree to a kiss and a cuddle. She was truly drunk though and fell into a deep sleep, an untidy bundle on the couch, so I left her, and returned to my own chamber and stared out at the night.
Agrippina’s story about her mother symbolised all our fears. We were at a crossroads between life and death and wanted to know what our fate would be. I wondered how long the waiting would go on. However, the next morning, Agrippina’s principal spy in Rome, her boat-master Creperius, arrived. He was dirty, dishevelled, unshaven and stank like a tanner’
s yard. He almost fell off his horse in the courtyard. Agrippina herself helped him into the baths, shouting at the servants to bring food and wine which she insisted they taste first. Creperius, soaking in soapy water up to his neck, sat and gaspingly sipped at the wine.
‘I thought you were dead!’ Agrippina protested.
She sat by the edge of the bath, feet in the dirty water, glaring down at this most faithful of agents.
‘Where’s Sicculus?’
Creperius opened his eyes. He was a horse-faced man with scrawny, red hair; submerged in the water, he looked even more like the nag he rode with his long, wrinkled face creased into a smile. He sipped again at the wine.
‘Sicculus is dead!’ Creperius stared round the room, peering through the billowing smoke.
‘There’s only myself and Agrippina present,’ I reassured him. ‘Whilst the door is locked and bolted from the inside.’
‘I had at least a dozen spies in my son’s household!’ Agrippina exclaimed.
‘Well, we’re all gone now,’ Creperius replied without opening his eyes. ‘Do you remember Roscius the actor? He won’t be treading the boards anymore; his bowels became ulcerated and corrupted his whole flesh, turning it to worms. He hired slaves to bathe him but all his clothing, hand basins, baths and food were infected with the flux of decay.’ Creperius splashed the water. ‘Roscius spent most of the day in a bath, but it was no use: the vermin continued to spill out of every orifice in his body.’
‘Poison?’ Agrippina asked.
‘Of course!’ Creperius laughed. ‘Probably administered by one of Poppea’s servants. Naturally, I became very careful about what I ate and drank.’
‘And Sicculus?’ I asked, recalling the small Sicilian with his mop of black hair and laughing face.
‘I searched Rome for him,’ Creperius retorted, ‘but there was no sight of him. Rumour says Nero’s agents caught him, cut off his eyelids and locked him in a chest bristling with spikes. The only reason I know that much is because a joke is circulating that Sicculus’s death was due more to insomnia than pain. After that, I decided to leave Rome. I have been hiding out for at least a week. When I thought the time was ripe, I used what silver I had, bought that horse and fled.’
‘So, it’s happening,’ Agrippina whispered.
‘Oh, yes it’s all happening. Publicly, Nero calls you “the best of Mothers”. Secretly he’s plotting furiously. You haven’t got a friend left in Rome: anyone you favour has either been bought or killed. If you returned to the city, you’d never leave it alive.’
‘And who is the moving spirit behind this?’ Agrippina asked. ‘It can’t be my son? Somebody has seized his heart and caught his ear.’
Creperius opened his eyes and smiled lazily. ‘Domina, I think you mean a different part of Nero’s anatomy. Poppea is now queen of the day as well as queen of the night. She is Augusta in everything but name.’
‘And my son?’ Agrippina was eager to change the topic of conversation.
‘He loses himself in the usual revels. Disguised as a slave, he puts himself at the head of a band of roisterers, and they roam the streets after nightfall.’
‘Tigellinus!’ Agrippina exclaimed.
‘Tigellinus is one of them. He’s Master of the Revels. They waylay passersby, rob and strip them and then hurl them into sewers. They haunt shops, inns, taverns, houses of ill-repute. No woman is safe. Do you remember Senator Julius Montanus?’ Creperius wiped the water from his face. ‘One night Nero, in disguise, attacked his wife. Montanus defended her and gave your son a good whipping. The Emperor just ran away. Montanus later realised who he had attacked and went to the palace to apologise. The silly idiot should have kept his mouth shut. All your son said was: “You struck Nero and still dare to live?” Montanus recognised the threat and committed suicide. Your son now wanders Rome with a troop of gladiators to defend him.’
‘Why?’ Agrippina asked. ‘Why such stupidity? Doesn’t Seneca have any control over him?’
Creperius’s face became tight. He pulled a towel from the edge of the bath and wiped his face.
‘Domina,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Nobody knows what’s coming. Nero is changing. He’s becoming uncontrollable and vermin like Tigellinus urge him on.’
‘Caligula!’ The word was out of Domina’s mouth before she could stop it.
‘Yes,’ Creperius agreed. ‘They are whispering that Caligula has returned.’
Agrippina’s fingers flew to her cheeks. She stared fearfully across the steam-filled room as if she could see Caligula, ‘Little Boots’, her mad, corrupt, obscene brother who believed he could make love to the moon.
‘Impossible!’ Agrippina shook her head and got to her feet. ‘That’s impossible! We’ll talk tonight, Creperius. I’ll hold a banquet in your honour!’ And she fled the room.
Agrippina soon recovered herself, summoning the cooks and servants, issuing orders for the banquet that same evening. We did not eat in the triclinium but in a marble enclave on the east side of the villa overlooking the sea. It was a beautiful, early spring evening, with the weather growing soft and balmy. Agrippina acted as if she was still Empress of Rome. The marble walls were brought to life by a myriad of oil lamps and candles. The floor was swept, washed and covered in golden sawdust. Tables and couches were draped in silk and gold, ivory tasselled cushions were scattered about small polished tables set aside for the wine.
‘Always keep the wine in full view covered by a cloth,’ Agrippina warned. ‘It keeps away both flies and poisoners.’
Only four of us were present. Domina, myself, Acerronia and Creperius. Agrippina’s chefs did us proud. Accompanied by every sort of wine, there were mantis prawns, African snails, mussels and shellfish cooked in Chian wine, Trojan pig, gutted, roasted and stuffed with meats and different kinds of fish; even a lamprey outstretched on a platter with shrimps swimming all about it. Agrippina looked magnificent in pearl earrings and necklace, dressed in a pure white stola fringed with purple and gold with matching sandals. She lay on the couch like a young woman pretending to be Venus, waiting to be carved in stone by one of Rome’s master sculptors. Wine was passed round, and toasts were made, while Creperius gave us the gossip of Rome. A young actor, Appius, whilst showing off, had thrown a pear in the air and caught it in his mouth only to choke to death; a madman, Macheon, had climbed onto the altar in the Temple of Jupiter, uttering wild prophecies before he killed himself and the puppy he carried; the traffic in Rome was worse than ever.
‘It would wake a sea calf,’ Creperius murmured. ‘Litters, wagons, there’s no order.’
And then he said the words that I was to remember, later.
‘Your son Nero is disgusted with the city. He claims there is nothing wrong with Rome that a good fire couldn’t cure.’
A cold breeze wafted in, chilling the sweat and silencing the conversation. All I could hear was the distant roar of the sea, the surf pounding the rocks, and the cry of the gulls as they swept in before the sun finally set.
Agrippina had listened carefully to Creperius’s chatter, allowing the servants to finish their tasks. Once they were gone, she unfastened the pearl ring from her right ear lobe. She dropped it into a small jar of vinegar and watched it dissolve.
‘Cleopatra did this once,’ she murmured. ‘She took a pearl worth one million sesterces and watched it crumble.’ She smiled. ‘An offering to the Gods.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in them,’ I retorted. Agrippina shrugged one shoulder. ‘Gods,’ she whispered. ‘Or just the approach of darkness? Well, Creperius, what other news from Rome?’
‘Seagulls are regarded as a delicacy. Amerlius has gone into mourning because one of his lampreys died.’
Agrippina made a cutting movement with her hand.
‘The real gossip,’ she demanded. ‘What of my son, the Emperor?’
‘He’s still being advised by Seneca.’
‘Our great philosopher,’ Acerronia mocked.
‘Burrus c
ommands the Praetorian Guard.’
‘I put him there,’ Agrippina snapped.
‘Otho’s back from his travels.’
‘Is he now?’ Agrippina’s lip curled. ‘And does he still shave every hair of his body to make a toupee for his bald pate? Or rub his testicles against any sacred object he can find so as to make them stronger and more potent.’ She laughed. ‘If that succeeded I really would believe in the Gods!’
‘Tigellinus is also a rising star.’
‘May the Gods help us all if Tigellinus takes over.’ She paused, head down, staring from under her eyelids. ‘And Poppea Sabina?’
Creperius sipped at his wine. I studied him carefully. A wild thought occurred. What if he had been bought? Was he really Domina’s faithful spy and servant or had Nero seduced him like he had the rest? Creperius’s watery eyes shifted towards me. He must have read my thoughts, for he shook his head slightly.
‘Poppea Sabina?’ Agrippina demanded.
‘She rules the Emperor’s heart,’ Creperius retorted. ‘Nero’s wife Octavia remains lady of the shadows. Acte,’ he sniffed at the mention of the Emperor’s former mistress, ‘is no more than a wisp of smoke. Poppea walks Rome as if she were a goddess. She covers her face with a veil: her constant prayer is that she dies before the pure whiteness of her skin is tinged with age.’
‘I’d be happy to arrange that,’ Agrippina murmured.
‘She bathes every day in the milk of asses. The Emperor has arranged for four hundred of these beasts to be kept stabled for her use. Her porphyry bath is filled with the stuff. She spends hours examining her body in long mirrors of polished silver. Crocodile mucus is bought for her hands and her body is dried with swansdown, her tongue stroked with black ivy sticks to make it soft and velvety. She has masseurs from Africa, perfumers from Cyprus, the best dressmakers from Alexandria. She uses saffron powder to make her hair turn amber and has launched a new perfume, her own recipe, ambergris.’ Creperius gestured towards the jug of vinegar. ‘Only the finest pearls from the Red Sea will do for Poppea. Her shoes are of pure white kid, and their soles are gold-leafed. When Poppea walks, her feet tap like a dancer coming onto the stage. They say she practises every movement of her eyes, her mouth, her face, her hands. She knows all there is of love-making.’
Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) Page 3
