‘You are nondescript, Parmenon,’ she declared. ‘You can enter rooms and stand silently without being noticed. You are a born spy.’
I baulked at the insult but she threw her arms round my neck and kissed me on the lips. ‘Not my spy,’ she murmured. ‘More my shadow.’
I never knew exactly what I took into Rome, letters hidden away in a flask of wine, coded messages which only the recipient could understand. I would collect the gossip and the scandal, scooping it up like a fisherman would a catch in his net, and bring it all back to Agrippina. I told her how the Lamian Gardens were still haunted by Caligula’s ghost, whilst the same eerie phenomenon had been experienced in the place where he’d been assassinated. Nero overhead this, absorbing every detail avidly. Of course, he questioned me closely later and made me repeat all the ghastly stories.
On one beautiful afternoon at Tusculum, a slave reported that one of the hanging cages in the garden had been forced and the songbird was missing. Usually, a chamberlain or steward would have dealt with such a matter but they were all enjoying a wine-soaked siesta. I decided to take care of the problem myself. I inspected the cage, became intrigued and went deeper into the garden, where I heard a childish voice chanting in the bushes. I quietly moved these apart, to see Nero kneeling inside. His body shielded a small rock, a makeshift altar on which the songbird had been sacrificed. The bird had been slit from throat to crotch, its innards spilt out in a bloody mess. Nero had dipped his fingers into the blood and daubed his face as if he was a priest.
‘What are you doing?’ I demanded.
‘I am performing a sacrifice.’
‘For what?’
‘For nothing, silly!’ Nero retorted. ‘I’m sacrificing to Uncle Caligula. When he comes to me, I talk to him.’
Despite the sunlight and the warmth, my skin crawled and my hands turned clammy. It wasn’t just the sacrifice, the destruction of a beautiful bird, but those clear blue eyes looking at me so earnestly and Nero’s aimless chatter, so reminiscent of Caligula.
‘Uncle is a God,’ Nero pressed the point. ‘And I am his nephew. It is right to make pious sacrifice.’
He was only eight years old but he talked and looked like a seasoned conspirator. I started to withdraw but he sprang to his feet. He grasped my wrist, digging his nails deeply into my skin.
‘It’s our secret, isn’t it, Parmenon? Just between you and me. You won’t tell Mother?’
‘I won’t tell Mother,’ I promised.
‘That’s good,’ the little horror replied. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve done this you know, Parmenon. Uncle tells me everything. He sends his regards.’ His face creased into a smile. ‘Now you may go and I’ll finish the rite.’
I never did tell Agrippina: I was too frightened to do so. In her eyes, Nero could do no wrong. In those heady, conspiratorial days, as Agrippina spun her web, no one was safe. Much as she loved me, much as she needed me, I, too, could become an offering on the altar to her adorable son.
Six years in all passed, slipping away like a dream. Sometimes I tried to live my own life: I’d meet a pretty face, I’d invest a little money. I was planning to buy my own farm but remorselessly Agrippina drew me back. I had no choice; I danced like a moth round the alluring flame. Agrippina used me more and more as her messenger to Rome.
‘Concentrate on Claudius,’ she warned, ‘and that glorious bitch of his.’
I did so. There were plenty of people ready to tell their tales. Claudius had won some respect, being more restrained and less bloodthirsty than his predecessor. However, his growing eccentricity was a constant theme at dinner conversations. Claudius liked the old ways and he fancied himself as a great judge or lawyer. He would often sit in the courts to hear and arbitrate on cases. Sometimes he proved himself a tyrant, at other times he’d allow the lawyers to insult him. One little Greek, frustrated by Claudius’s refusal to give him a fair hearing, hurled a wax tablet across the court, striking Claudius on the face.
‘As for you!’ the Greek screamed. ‘You are not Caesar, you’re just a silly, old man!’
Claudius dabbed at the cut, and allowed the Greek to have his say and leave without being punished. At other times Claudius would become involved in the day-to-day lives of his subjects. He began a campaign against ostentation, which he initiated by buying a beautiful silver chariot and having it smashed to pieces in front of a crowd of onlookers. Or he would issue edicts such as: ‘Yew juice is a sovereign remedy against snake bite’, or, ‘breaking wind at table is not a breach of etiquette’. I think the latter was to excuse his own lack of personal hygiene.
Claudius loved to stage games and pronounced that any gladiator who pretended not to fight well would have his throat cut. Sometimes he would bandy words with the mob or even with the gladiators themselves. On one occasion, during the draining of the Fucine Lake, Claudius decided to stage a mock naval battle. It was the usual nonsense: two triremes, each manned by a team of gladiators, would crash together and the crowd would be treated to a sea battle. Just before the games began the gladiators, as was customary, paraded in front of the imperial box and gave the ritual salute.
‘Hail, Caesar! We, who are about to die, salute you!’
‘Or not die, as the case may be!’ Claudius retorted.
The gladiators thought he was pardoning them, granting them life, so they put down their weapons and refused to fight. The crowd was treated to the spectacle of their Emperor having to climb into the arena and bribe both sides to continue.
Agrippina was most interested in Claudius’s relationship with Messalina. She listened avidly to the tales of her rival’s amorous exploits whilst Claudius was growing more and more puritanical. He banned prostitutes from Rome. When he discovered that the husband of his elder daughter, Antonia, was more interested in pretty boys, Claudius sent soldiers to his house: they caught the miscreant in bed with one of his lovers and promptly stabbed both to death.
Nevertheless, I warned Agrippina that Messalina’s influence over Claudius did not appear to be waning. She was ruthless and sly in exploiting her husband’s fears and growing superstition. One day as Claudius entered her court, a litigant came running up and begged for an audience.
‘Your Excellency,’ he fawned. ‘Take care this day, for I dreamt you were assassinated.’
Claudius, of course, was full of concern and begged the man to describe the would-be assassin: the cunning litigant turned and pointed to his rival waiting in the court. Claudius was taken in by this nonsense and the poor victim was immediately hustled away and executed on a fictitious charge of treason. Messalina was equally successful in using the same method to despatch a senator she hated. One morning Narcissus, the powerful freedman, burst into the Emperor’s bedchamber. Sweaty and stricken, he threw himself on his knees and told the Emperor of his dream in which Messalina’s hated senator had forced his way into the palace and stabbed Claudius to death.
‘I have dreamt a similar dream,’ Messalina divulged.
Claudius heard them out, not yet fully believing, until a chamberlain promptly arrived to say that the very same senator – whom of course Messalina had secretly invited to the palace – had tried to force his way into the imperial chambers. It was confirmation enough for Claudius: orders were issued and, by noon, the senator concerned was forced to take his own life.
Agrippina listened to this story and asked me to repeat it several times.
‘A clever ruse,’ she murmured. ‘A very clever ruse. If only poor Passienus was better, I’d travel to Rome myself to see what was happening.’
Poor Passienus was by now in a terrible way. His mind was wandering and, for some strange reason, he had fallen in love with a beech tree in his garden at Tusculum. He would embrace the trunk and kiss it, ordering his slaves to water the tree only with the finest wine from his cellars. He would sit and talk to it and sleep in its shade, and, late one afternoon, he died there. Agrippina mourned dutifully, and then had the body cremated and buried in the fam
ily tomb on the Appian Way. Once the funeral was over, Agrippina announced it was time for her to return to Rome.
Chapter 12
‘What times! What manners!’
Cicero, In Catilinam: I, i
Agrippina used Passienus’s wealth to set up in luxury in her house on the Via Sacra. Once again she was visited by the powerful and the mighty Claudius himself came, to eat and drink, and listen owl-eyed to Agrippina’s lectures on Roman history. He would fall asleep, mouth open, and a slave would come and tickle his throat to get rid of the excess food and wine. Once this was achieved, two Nubian slaves lifted him up and carried him back to his litter.
Oh, Agrippina was still plotting. I sometimes ask myself why I stayed with her but . . . I loved the woman! In spite of all her wrongdoing and, yes, her killings, I admired her courage, and the fact that, once she had given her heart, she loved without compromise or constraint. She reminded me of a beautiful eagle, wings back, plunging down to the earth; once she had chosen her quarry, only death itself could stop her. During those early months after her return to Rome, Agrippina, like an eagle, perched on a branch, high above the scheming politics of the court, watching, waiting for her opportunity.
Claudius was undoubtedly tiring of Messalina’s strident ways, her jealousy, her fury when her will was blocked. So Agrippina prepared to make her first move. The secular games were being held in Rome, and Nero was invited to take part whilst Agrippina joined Claudius in the imperial box. Messalina and her coterie were also there, and Agrippina watched them avidly, fascinated by Messalina’s open flaunting of her favourites. One of these, Vitellius, Governor of Palestine, was even allowed to carry one of Messalina’s slippers next to his heart as a token of his undying love for her. We all settled down, and watched Nero, aged eleven, and Britannicus, aged nine, lead the procession into the arena. Both boys, their hair dressed in decorative garlands, carried long, sharp javelins, a bow and quiver over their backs and around their necks chains of gold. When Nero came forward and saluted the Emperor, he was greeted by thunderous, rapturous applause, a sharp contrast to the courteous cheers and polite hand claps that greeted Britannicus: Domina had hired a special claque and they did a brilliant job. Messalina turned in her chair and glared at Agrippina, who smiled icily back, her message clear: Agrippina, daughter of Germanicus, had returned to Rome and her war with Messalina had only just begun. Afterwards I advised caution, but as usual Agrippina just ignored me.
‘What can the bitch do?’ she taunted. ‘Attack me? Attack the grandson of Germanicus? Rome would not tolerate it. It’s time we went to work, Parmenon.’
The invitations to Claudius and his freedmen Narcissus and Pallas increased, but at these evenings Agrippina began to look anxious and troubled, refusing to tell Claudius the reason. At last she produced Styges, an Egyptian soothsayer, a mountebank who could convince even prudent men that he had the gift of seeing the future. At first Agrippina pretended to be reluctant to let her self-styled seer inform the Emperor of what he had divined. Only when Claudius cleared the chamber and took the most solemn oaths, did Styges reveal that he had dreamed the husband of Messalina was in great danger.
‘Not Messalina herself?’ Claudius asked.
‘No, Excellency, her husband.’
‘But, but . . .’ Claudius stammered. ‘What can be done? What shall I do?’
Agrippina reminded Claudius of the oath he had taken not to tell anyone of the seer’s prophecy. The Emperor, now hooked like the fish he was, asked Agrippina for advice.
‘At the moment the danger is some time off,’ Domina replied. ‘But, Excellency, you must plan how to deal with it. If Messalina . . .’ She let her words hang in the air.
‘If Messalina what?’ Claudius demanded.
‘If Messalina could be encouraged to take another husband, just for a while . . .’
Claudius blinked and glanced at me. ‘Wh- wha- what do you think, Parmenon?’
I stared at my mistress, who was acting to the full her role as concerned Roman matron. She held my gaze, and I glimpsed the laughter in her eyes.
‘The most important thing, your Excellency,’ I insisted, ‘is the health and safety of your sacred person. That’s why you must keep this warning to yourself. If it became public knowledge . . .’
Claudius bit his lip.
‘Think of it this way, your Excellency,’ I continued, ‘danger threatens on all sides, but that is part of your sacred duty. Didn’t the divine Caesar, the noble Augustus, and all the great heroes of Rome have to face danger?’
Claudius nodded. Oh, in many ways he was such a great fool!
‘What Domina Agrippina wishes to ensure,’ I explained smoothly, ‘is that there is protection between you and that danger.’
Claudius poked me sharply in the chest. ‘You could become Messalina’s husband for a while, but no bed sport, mind you.’ He threw his head back and bellowed with laughter at the look of consternation on my face.
‘I was only joking,’ he wheezed. ‘Messalina would never have anything to do with someone who was not only of inferior rank but ugly with it!’
I smiled in acknowledgement of his wit.
Once the Emperor had gone, Agrippina made me share her couch. She embraced and kissed me on the lips and licked my ear.
‘Clever boy, Parmenon,’ she whispered. ‘We have the rod, we have the line, the fish is near. All we need to do is choose the bait.’
Agrippina now dug deep into her treasury and started to throw the most lavish of parties. Invitations were extended to every member of the high society of Rome although Claudius and Messalina were quietly ignored. Agrippina’s chefs became the toast of the city, serving dishes such as ostrich brains and peas mixed with gold, or lentils on a bed of precious stones, so the guests were both well-fed and well-rewarded. Plump chickens, sows’ udders, sucking pig, hot boiled goose, stuffed hare, venison, bream and the tastiest oysters fresh from the dredge were all on offer. Troupes of poets, musicians, dancers and entertainers were hired. Agrippina was the most charming of hostesses, flirting and dallying with all the most eligible bachelors until she found her prey: Gaius Silius, probably the handsomest man I have ever met. He had the looks, body and deportment of a Greek god, with a brain as thick and as dead as a statue. Agrippina acted the role of the infatuated maiden, lavishing attention and gifts on him, and pretending to be distraught when he was absent. Their affair became the talk of Rome and attracted the attention of Messalina, who had her own plans for young Silius. A romantic tug of war took place which was won by Messalina. She and the young bachelor became utterly infatuated with each other, united not only in lust but a desire to mock and shame Agrippina in the eyes of others.
The lavish banquets ceased and Agrippina became more reclusive. Claudius and his freedmen were now invited to little private supper parties where Agrippina and the Emperor could converse closely together. Claudius was full of anger about his wife’s conduct, but Agrippina quietly reminded Claudius of Styges’s prophecy, gently coaxing Claudius to let the adulterous pair have their heads. The Emperor submitted and, when Messalina’s infatuation with Silius only deepened, Claudius’s powerful ministers, Narcissus and Pallas, entered the game.
Claudius was persuaded to go to Ostia to make sacrifice, and whilst he was away, Agrippina moved into the imperial quarters as the guest of Pallas. At last Agrippina was able to drop her mask and invited Narcissus, Pallas and myself to a secret meeting.
‘This is truly ridiculous,’ Agrippina began. ‘The Emperor, my Uncle Claudius, is being made a cuckold, a public laughing stock.’
Of course, she made no reference to her own involvement in this affair or the way she’d persuaded Claudius to turn a blind eye to what the rest of Rome was talking of. Pallas and Narcissus needed little encouragement: they were tired of Messalina, fearful of her terrible rages. If the opportunity presented itself, they were both prepared to strike speedily and ruthlessly.
‘I have heard rumours,’ Agrippina said. ‘That
Messalina and Silius intend to marry.’
Narcissus and Pallas cried out in disbelief.
‘It is true,’ Agrippina insisted. ‘They are going to hold their own Bacchanalian festival and celebrate a marriage both unlawful and impious.’
After intense discussion, it was agreed that, if such a ceremony took place, Claudius should immediately confront his wife. Messengers were sent speeding off to Ostia, beseeching Claudius to return, and Agrippina and the freedmen met him in the Praetorian camp outside the city. They produced witnesses who described in every detail Messalina’s affair with Silius, their proposed bigamous marriage and a litany of previous infidelities. Claudius, trembling, at first panicked.
‘Am I still Emperor?’ he demanded of Narcissus and Agrippina. ‘Will Silius become Emperor in my place?’
Agrippina calmed him down and advised him precisely what to do.
The information Agrippina had gathered about Messalina’s activities, proved to be astonishingly accurate. Messalina and Silius, their brains turned by arrogance and lust, performed a marriage ceremony in the palace grounds, acting out the rituals of a grape harvest. Messalina and her female friends were garbed in animal skins, as if they were Maenads, whilst Silius and his cronies were dressed as satyrs. Frenzied in their drunkenness, they threw all constraints aside: men and women made love to each other in the shade of trees in wine-induced orgies, three or four men taking one woman, their performance watched and cheered by the others. Agrippina’s spies reported back to the Praetorian camp, and, by late afternoon, Claudius had recovered both his wit and his courage.
Helped on by Agrippina, rumours of the Bacchanalian orgy, with particular emphasis on Messalina’s conduct, spread amongst the guards. Outraged tribunes demanded an audience with the Emperor, insisting that the illicit celebrations be stopped and the participants ruthlessly punished. Claudius, hectored by Agrippina, quietly agreed. Soldiers were despatched into the palace grounds, bringing the revelry to an abrupt end as both Satyrs and Maenads fled for their lives.
Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) Page 18
