‘What am I going to do about Claudius?’ Agrippina repeated.
We were seated in one of the gardens outside the palace, a sinister place that had once been used as a paupers’ burial ground. The outlines of the death-pits were still visible. During the time of Augustus its use as a cemetery was abandoned and it had been lawned over. Seventy years of lying fallow had benefited the rich soil, in which almost every bush and flower known to the empire bloomed. The heavy scent of flowers was almost overbearing but few birds flew or nested there. Many claimed it was a place of darkness, and the many palace sorcerors and soothsayers would often go grubbing amongst the abandoned graves for bones and herbs to make their magical potions.
‘Are you listening, Parmenon?’
‘I always listen, oh, August one,’ I retorted.
‘Don’t be sarcastic.’ Agrippina pinched my arm. ‘You are getting old, Parmenon.’ She tousled my hair. ‘There’s a good deal of silver here, but even more in the bank, eh? Do you ever think of leaving me, Parmenon?’
I pointed to a butterfly resting on a flower.
‘I’m like that, Excellency. I would love to fly but I am always drawn back.’
Agrippina leaned down and tightened the thong of her silver-gilt sandal, before dabbing at the sweat on her neck.
‘You’ve heard the rumours?’
‘I’ve heard Lepida is dead.’
‘Yes, the mother of the wild whore.’ Agrippina stared up at the sky. ‘She had to go, Parmenon. Blood will out. I killed her daughter and, in time, Lepida would have struck back at me or Nero.’
‘They say the guards threw her into boiling water before the executioner took her head.’
‘I didn’t ask for that,’ Agrippina replied.
‘Nor did Narcissus, Domina, and he’s the real problem, isn’t he? Whispering his poison into Claudius’s ears, openly courting young Britannicus?’
Agrippina was half listening: her mood had changed as her rage began to boil.
I know she had heard the reports. Claudius himself was now inviting Britannicus to supper parties, begging his forgiveness, toasting him with his goblet, saying he would show the people a proper prince. The Emperor was appearing more and more at the Senate House to plead that both Nero and Britannicus should be treated fairly. More dangerous were rumours that Claudius was threatening to change his will. His relationship with Agrippina had soured, and he was fond of repeating the witticism that it was his destiny to suffer the wickedness of wives, and to punish them.
‘You are going to attack, aren’t you?’ I asked.
‘Next week it will be May,’ Agrippina replied. ‘I tell you, Parmenon.’ She looked over her shoulder satisfied that the guards were in position. ‘If I do not move now, this time next year none of us might be here. I don’t fancy another long period of exile. Are you with me, Parmenon?’
‘That’s a stupid question, Domina. If you fall we all fall with you.’
‘You could retire,’ she smiled. ‘Buy a villa or farm out in Campania. Marry some pleasant girl, have children, raise a son.’
‘A son like Nero, Domina?’
‘You have it all wrong.’
She rose, patted me on the shoulder and walked away.
I didn’t have it wrong but Agrippina was intent on proving herself right. She moved slowly, carefully, distancing herself from the Emperor. She began to act like a recluse but took me more and more into her confidence. I once saw a wolf in the arena, which, although famished and dangerous, only attacked when it was sure which of his intended victims was the weakest. Agrippina was the same. She perched above Claudius’s court and watched carefully. Pallas was her man, body and soul, and she thought the same of Burrus and Seneca; but Narcissus was now her enemy. She studied them carefully one by one, weighing their worth, all the time refusing to rise to Claudius’s baiting.
It was late summer before she was finally ready to strike.
I was told to stay up late one night and act as door-keeper, whilst the slaves and servants were dismissed to their quarters. Agrippina was evidently expecting a visitor, but in fact, it turned out to be two. I recognised one immediately: the fat-faced, small-eyed, balding court physician Xenephon. The other was a diminutive, pale-faced, red-haired woman with strange green eyes and heavily painted lips. She was dressed in tawdry finery except for the pearls around her neck which were genuine enough. She was Locusta, the descendant of a long line of famous poisoners. After Locusta had been seen and dismissed, Xenephon was treated to the pleasures of both board and bed. Agrippina had discovered that the Emperor had secretly changed his will. He’d also confided to this treacherous physician how tired he was of Agrippina’s ambitions. Now that both Xenephon and Locusta were in Agrippina’s net, they would find it impossible to extricate themselves.
Ominous portents appeared in the city: rumours of a flaming comet; showers of blood in the forum; a lightning strike at the Praetorian camp; a swarm of bees settled on the Palatine. Doors to the temple of Jupiter opened and closed of their own accord. The birth of a hermaphrodite was reported, as well as a pig born with the claws of a hawk. It was the usual farrago of nonsense. Some were natural phenomena, others sprang from Agrippina’s fertile imagination. Claudius became frightened, withdrawing more and more into the palace, but Agrippina followed like a hunting leopard. I had no idea how and when the attack would begin but, from Agrippina’s air of subdued tension, I sensed that if she had her way, Claudius would never welcome another new year.
On the night of 12 October, Agrippina invited her husband to a supper party in one of the palace banqueting halls. Claudius arrived with the four women who had become his constant companions: a blonde Syrian; a huge negress with purple lips; a slim Jewess whom Claudius loved to have pinch and slap him; and finally, a bronze-skinned Egyptian. The sole task of these women was the sexual gratification of the Emperor, a welcome relief for Agrippina as it distracted his attention from her. On that particular evening Agrippina was charm personified. Nothing was too good for her husband. An artificial ceiling had been created above the banqueting hall, which opened to shower full-blown roses and perfumed water on Claudius and his small coterie of guests. A troupe of Ephesian dancers mimed the marriage of Psyche and Cupid to the sound of flutes and pipes. Once this was finished, the imperial taster Helotus brought in the hors d’oeuvres, a bowl of deliciously cooked mushrooms, Claudius’s favourite dish. I was standing behind Agrippina’s couch as Helotus tasted the mushrooms. Agrippina nibbled at the side of the dish and smilingly invited Claudius to partake of the bigger ones. Claudius ate them with relish and asked for more.
‘Where is Narcissus?’ Claudius raised his head. ‘He should be here. He loves mushrooms.’
‘He’s gone to the baths at Sinuessa,’ Xenephon said. ‘He’s suffering the symptoms of early dropsy.’
Xenephon caught Agrippina’s eyes, smiled and glanced away. The removal of Narcissus was essential to Agrippina’s plans. More mushrooms were brought, but Agrippina became anxious when Claudius, helped by his escort, eased himself off the couch to go outside to purge his stomach and then on to the latrines to empty his bowels. When the old glutton returned hale and hearty, Agrippina’s agitation grew. I could detect the signs: the movement of her head as if to ease a crick in her neck, the quick false smile. I leant over to whisper ‘Relax,’ when Claudius squirmed on the couch, clawing at his stomach. He half raised himself but fell back with a groan; his face had turned livid, his big tongue lolled out, he shivered, and his teeth chattered. Xenephon sprang up and came over.
‘Oh, Divine One!’ he exclaimed. ‘What is the matter?’
The rest of the guests fell silent.
‘Quick! Quick!’ Xenephon gestured at Agrippina. ‘The Emperor has eaten something which has upset his stomach. It’s best if he purges himself.’
A silver bowl and a peacock feather, its tip soaked in perfumed oil, were brought. Xenephon, helped by Agrippina, thrust this into Claudius’s mouth, attempting to tickle his t
hroat and make him vomit. Claudius was immediately sick and, wiping his mouth, pronounced that he felt better; but within minutes the cramps had returned.
‘The Divine One must rest.’
Agrippina got to her feet, gesturing at the slaves to lift the Emperor from his couch. With me and Xenephon trailing behind, Agrippina and her husband retreated into their private apartments. Once the Emperor was laid on the bed, the slaves dismissed and the doors locked, Agrippina turned on Xenephon.
‘You said the poisoned mushrooms would be enough.’ She glared, totally ignoring her husband’s groans and retching on the bed.
Xenephon, trembling with fright, spread his hands. ‘Excellency, he must have taken antidotes, otherwise what was on the tip of that feather alone would have been enough to kill him outright.’
Agrippina glanced at me. ‘Look, Parmenon. This is like the death of Tiberius all over again.’ She pointed to the bed. ‘If Claudius recovers, we will all die.’
She began to organise the palace guards, and no one was allowed into the chamber. For the next two days Agrippina allowed false messages to be disseminated, stating that the Emperor was recovering from a stomach ailment and all would be well. Seneca and Burrus were brought into the plot. A hand-picked cohort of the Praetorian Guard took up residence in the courtyard. Agrippina never left her husband’s side and for two whole days that old body, rotten with gluttony and excess, tried to fight the effects of the poison. Sometimes Claudius would attempt to rise but the cramps kept him prostrate. Agrippina scrupulously banished all food and drink from the chamber so as to dispel any suspicions that the Emperor was being poisoned. Instead she just waited for the full effects of that first poisonous meal to wreak its effect.
The Emperor, his body wracked by vomiting, retching and violent diarrhoea, gradually weakened. He lost all sense of feeling, muttered about the cold and, on the morning of the second day, finally slipped into death.
Xenophon checked the corpse scrupulously, whilst Britannicus and Octavia were brought to an antechamber and kept there under close guard. Seneca and Nero were summoned to prepare the speech the heir would give to both the Praetorian Guard and the Senate. By mid-morning Agrippina was ready, and the palace doors were thrown open. Nero, with Seneca on one side and Burrus on the other, emerged onto the steps of the courtyard whilst Agrippina’s claque amongst the waiting crowd began the whisper, ‘Claudius is dead! Claudius is dead!’
The Praetorian Guard was also prepared: standards were lifted in salute, trumpets brayed, swords beat against shields and the roar of the soldiers drowned the whispers of the crowd, ‘Long live Nero! Emperor and Caesar!’
My first intimation that Agrippina was not fully in charge of the plot, emerged during Claudius’s funeral. A gilded tabernacle, shaped as a small replica of the temple of Jupiter, was set up in the Forum, containing a bed carved out of ivory and covered with cloth of purple and gold. The dead Claudius lay inside, propped up at the head of the bed, his eyes closed, his face heavily made up as an exhibition to the crowd that the Emperor had not died violently but from some ‘sickness of the stomach’.
Nero stood by the tabernacle and delivered the funeral speech. When he reached the part describing Claudius as, ‘Moderate in his desires, master of all passions, neglecting his personal happiness for the greatness of Rome’, the muffled laughter of the crowd was widespread. Claudius was known as glutton, an old reprobate. Through Seneca’s sarcasm, Nero was openly ridiculing his predecessor. A similar speech was delivered to the Senate and, within a few days, Seneca’s satire appeared on the streets, ‘The Metamorphisis of the Pumpkin’, a sly, vicious attack on the attempts to deify Claudius.
‘Listen to this!’ I said to Agrippina as I read Seneca’s pamphlet. ‘“The Emperor’s soul went out of his body with a clap of thunder from his favourite organ, and he cried: ‘Oh Heavens, I think I’ve messed myself’”.’
‘Claudius deserves to be mocked,’ Agrippina replied. ‘He was a glutton, a man of excess.’
‘That’s not the point,’ I retorted. ‘If Nero is encouraged to mock the office he now holds, he mocks you as well.’
‘My son doesn’t mean to do that,’ Agrippina replied, eyes shining. ‘Have you heard the password that was given to the troops?’ She clapped her hands. ‘“Best of mothers”!’
She wouldn’t hear any more. I disagreed, but the damage was done. Seneca had not only taught Nero Rhetoric, but had also instilled in him a mocking attitude to authority and to all that had gone before: although Agrippina couldn’t see it, that included the ‘best of mothers’.
Oh, Agrippina was accorded every honour. She continued to listen to the Senate debates, sitting on a chair behind the veil. When she processed round the city, Praetorian Guards protected her palanquin; the title of ‘Augusta’ was used more and more; her image appeared on statues and coins. She had an apartment in the palace and Nero visited her every day. Under such fawning love Agrippina blossomed, and the years seemed to slip away from her. She believed she had nothing to fear: Burrus was in charge of the Praetorian Guard; Seneca was now First Minister; Pallas was in charge of the Treasury. The Senate had been purged of any enemies whilst the crowd and the army not only hailed her as mother of their young, handsome, charming Emperor but as the daughter of the great Germanicus. Ah well, politics are like the seasons: the changes are imperceptible until you suddenly realise that you have passed from the mellowness of Autumn to the chill of Winter.
Narcissus returned to Rome a broken man but still a very wealthy one. Agrippina ignored him, but Seneca, for old times sake, dined and wined him; he also encouraged that old wily fox to have one last throw before the game was over. Narcissus kept in the background, claiming ill health, and to all appearances he looked a broken man. Narcissus responded to Nero’s solicitude by agreeing to pay for the games held in honour of Nero’s accession.
I remember that day well. It was a beautiful spring morning and all of Rome was on holiday. Nero and his mother processed down to the amphitheatre near the Forum with all the panoply of power. Beautiful young slaves dressed as satyrs or fauns surrounded their gold-tasselled litter. Senators walked behind in brilliant white togas. Crack cohorts of the Praetorian Guard, in full dress armour, went before. Agrippina, of course, shared the Emperor’s litter, and I walked beside them, holding a curtain back as Nero saluted the crowd with a miniature statue of the goddess Victory carved out of pure gold and studded with precious gems. Nero regarded it as a good luck charm and took it everywhere. He was also sporting an emerald eye-glass and, every so often, would scrutinise the crowd through this before raising a languid hand to acknowledge their salutations. Agrippina wore a wreath of gold and carried a silver staff surmounted by a golden eagle with wings outstretched. She was hailed as ‘Empress’ and ‘Augusta’. She reminded me of a bride on her wedding day. The streets were strewn with flowers; canopies, stretching from one upper storey to another, showered down rose petals, and carpets and tapestries hung from the windows. At every crossroads white-garbed acolytes from the temples burnt perfumed incense in golden pots.
At the amphitheatre, guarded by lines of Praetorian Guards, Nero escorted his mother through the main entrance and up into the imperial box. The mob was already waiting, clad in their browns and greens, munching melon seeds and shouting at the water-bearers for stoups of refreshment. The day was warm and the awnings had been pulled across. To protect the mob a huge fence had been erected around the arena, on which elephant tusks were hung at intervals from which thick nets draped. The mob took this as a sign that not only would wild beasts be part of the spectacle but the games would be bloody and dangerous. The sand in the amphitheatre had been ground from a special stone, and in the sunlight it shone like golden snow. The imperial box smelt of the most fragrant perfume through which the breeze wafted the smell of stale sweat, onions, raw wine and that strange, eerie odour of imminent bloodshed.
Nero and his mother, hand-in-hand, walked to the edge of the box, its front draped in
purple and gold cloths. The crowd rose as one man and roared its salutation. Nero lifted his hand, and the cheering grew even more deafening. As Nero and Agrippina took their seats, throne-like chairs raised well above the rest, Nero signalled and down the alleyways trooped imperial slaves carrying barrels filled with gifts: necklaces and brooches, food and free tickets for future events. These were thrown into the air and Nero laughed to watch the crowd scrambling to grab as much as they could, pointing to where the crush was great. I later learnt that ten people had been killed in the stampede.
Once Nero was settled, the magistrates, principal senators, leading Vestal Virgins, courtiers and their ladies garbed in silk and adorned with jewels, entered the box. These were followed by Nero’s special guests for the day who included the imperial physician, Xenephon of Cos, and the poisoner Locusta, both looking nervous and ill at ease. I knew that Agrippina hadn’t invited them, but Seneca, seated at the Emperor’s left, looked round specially as if he wanted to ensure that they were present. When Nero was distracted, deep in conversation with a Senator, I managed to catch Agrippina’s eye and indicate the two arrivals to her. Agrippina, her black hair hidden by a silver coronet to which a veil was attached, looked a little concerned but dismissed the new arrivals.
‘Why should Xenephon not be present?’ she whispered. ‘Although I admit I did pay Locusta to leave Rome and not return.’
She could say no more. An official had entered the arena and threw a roll of scarlet cloth up into the air. It spread out like a spurt of blood before floating down on the smooth raked sand. Trumpets brayed, the crowd roared its approval and the games began.
First came the usual blood-letting, an hors d’oeuvre to whet the appetite before the main meal was served. A group of condemned criminals, lashed to ‘T’-shaped crosses on mobile platforms, were wheeled into the amphitheatre. All were women, naked, their chins resting on the cross beams and their arms lashed beside them, leaving them free to move their hands. They reminded me of pinioned birds. The crowd pelted them with whatever they could lay their hands on, and soon the gold-silver sand was filthy. From the cross, in front of each victim, hung a dirty, cracked cup, the symbol of a convicted poisoner. I moved in my seat. Seneca turned to glance sideways at Nero and I caught the smirk on his face. Again the trumpets brayed. Wild, starving animals smoked from their cages, she-bears and tigresses, burst into the arena. For a while all was confusion, as a tigress attacked a bear and the most hideous, bloody struggle ensued. The condemned criminals, terrified of what was about to happen, screamed for mercy, drawing the attention of the animals to themselves. The tigress, having severely mauled the bear, turned and sprang at one victim, attacking her from the back, biting deep into her neck. The rest immediately joined in. I knew that the spectacle of poisoners, all of them women gathered from the prisons of Italy, being attacked by she-animals would jog memories and soon scandalous comparisons would be drawn. I recognised the vengeful hand of Narcissus proclaiming that this was how Rome dealt with poisoners. Agrippina appeared unperturbed, more interested in the report she had brought with her, studying the rolls of documents, as if she was in the imperial chancery rather than at a bloody spectacle.
Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) Page 20
