Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries)

by Doherty, Paul

  I disappeared into one of the passageways for a while, until the roar of the crowd told me the wild animals had completed their task. By the time I returned to the box, the bloody remains of what was left on each platform had been wheeled away. Slaves, wearing grotesque masks, were clearing the offal. Fresh sand was strewn and raked, as Nero and the imperial party were served refreshments of iced wine and cold fruits. After this, the second session began, and a flock of Moroccan peacocks were released into the amphitheatre. A master archer, using curved tipped arrows, let loose at them, taking off each head with one well-aimed arrow. The decapitated birds, blood spurting, would continue to run for a while to the approval and pleasure of the mob. At last the whole flock were dead, and the archer approached the imperial box to receive his reward. Narcissus must have paid his claques well, as from every corner of the amphitheatre the cry rose up, ‘Save the feathers! Save the feathers! Use them at dinner time!’

  I glanced across to see that Xenephon looked worried and Locusta had put her head down. Agrippina, however, was laughing and clapping her hands. She was sharp enough to realise the story was already round Rome and it would be better to appear unconcerned. She clapped her hands and the crowd imitated her. Seneca rather than Narcissus seemed to be in charge, and I saw him make a cutting movement with his hand. The trumpets brayed and another pantomime, of monkeys dressed as Amazons, either riding or perched in chariots pulled by goats, entered the arena. Nero roared with laughter, put one arm round his mother’s shoulder and pointed out what he thought was particularly funny. Seneca sat slumped in his chair. Again I realised, what the crowds would be whispering once the games were over: Claudius had been regarded as an old goat, and the monkeys were supposed to be the coterie of women who surrounded him, which included Agrippina.

  Once the monkeys and goats had left the arena, it was time for the real games to begin. The fight was to be between the retiarii, net men, and Thracians. The gladiators filed into the arena and saluted the Emperor. It was only when the fight began that the mob realised these were not ordinary gladiators, but women. At first the crowd took this with humour but when the women proved to be poor fighters, the joke turned sour, and the crowd pelted them with rotten fruit. The lanistae came into the arena to lash at the fighters and ensure a proper combat. The odds in such fights were heavily weighed in favour of the nets: another powerful reminder of Claudius who had hated this imbalance. By the late afternoon the games were finished, and the mob, fickle as ever, saluted Nero and his mother. It might be considered that Narcissus had achieved his revenge, but the day’s events were not yet finished.

  Nero took his guest up to the Palatine Palace where the dining hall had been specially transformed. A broad, golden awning shaped in the form of a mushroom hung down from the ceiling, and mushrooms fashioned out of silver and peacock feathers decorated the wall. The same motif was found on the tables, where knives, spoons and tooth picks were all embellished with the same theme. The guests took their seats, and were served with honey wine. The allusions continued as the meal continued. First came roast kid, served with slices of pumpkin, Seneca’s nickname for Claudius, in his bitter satire, which was a punning reference to his gaseous stomach and unfortunate habit of breaking wind at table. Then came fruits from the island of Cos, the birthplace of the physician Xenephon, which were served by the four women who had accompanied Claudius to his last meal. Roast peacock was brought in by slaves disguised as silver skeletons and finally, of course, came dish after dish of mushrooms served in a wide variety of sauces.

  ‘Mushrooms are the food of the Gods!’ Nero exclaimed, raising his goblet to his mother.

  She toasted him back, so immersed in her son’s glory and favour, that she failed to appreciate the barbed witticisms and pointed reminders of how her husband had been helped into the Hall of the Gods. The high point of all this punning farce was a huge concoction of red confectionery, shaped in the form of a man’s buttocks, penis and testicles. This was served on a great silver platter taken round the guests by four Nubians, before being placed in the centre of the table. The buttocks were smacked by a female slave and the chef had arranged the confectionery so that it squeaked as if emitting a fart. The guests, their bellies soaked in wine, roared their applause. They watched gleefully as another female slave began to stroke the penis until it split, spouting out thick, white cream all over her. She was then summoned by different guests who scooped it from her skin with spoons or even their tongues. After the meal, a troupe of actors presented a burlesque scene of an old man, nicknamed the Pumpkin, who was frightened of mushrooms and peacock feathers. Everyone laughed, including Agrippina. Seneca was lounging on his couch, next to his personal guests, an old banking friend called Serenus and a beautiful young woman with a dark, oval face, pouting red lips, and hair arranged in black ringlets. I caught my breath and stared again, ignoring the pantomime and shouts of laughter.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked a chamberlain.

  ‘Why, sir, that’s Acte, one of Rome’s most beautiful women. Serenus is a very lucky man.’

  I studied the girl carefully. She was dressed in green and white, and jewellery of the same colours adorned her neck, ear lobes and wrists. Despite the wine, I felt coldly sober. It was as if I had gone back some twenty-five years in time. Acte was beautiful, and had a powerful presence but the more I stared and saw that Nero was doing the same, the more that young woman reminded me of Agrippina as she had been when I first met her.

  Chapter 14

  ‘Who gains?’

  Cicero, Pro Milone, 12

  ‘Did you attend the games?’

  Pallas looked anxious, his eyes red-rimmed and ringed with shadows. He’d invited me into the treasury, and we sat in a small chamber near the imperial counting house, with its door locked, bolted and guarded. I knew by the fact that Pallas had invited me down there, that he must be upset and very wary, since he normally tended to acknowledge my presence only with a smile or a nod, considering me little more than Agrippina’s minion.

  ‘And is it true what happened?’

  He picked up a wine jug, its lid carved in the form of a beautiful mermaid, and filled my Agamemnon goblet.

  ‘Well, is it true?’ he insisted. ‘One insult after another?’

  ‘The whole day was given over to it: goats, pumpkins, peacock feathers, mushrooms.’

  ‘But the crowd didn’t understand the significance?’

  ‘They will eventually,’ I retorted.

  Pallas sighed noisily. ‘Doesn’t Agrippina realise what is happening?’ he wailed. ‘Seneca, that clever bugger, might be mocking Claudius but he is also mocking her. He’s proclaiming to the world that Agrippina killed her husband. With sarcasm as his weapon,’ he continued, ‘he’s nibbling away at Agrippina’s position like a dog at a juicy bone. Soon he’ll reach the marrow.’ He paused. ‘And what is Locusta doing back in Rome?’

  ‘Agrippina didn’t mind,’ I replied. ‘I have made enquiries and it seems that Nero himself ordered her return to Rome.’

  ‘Oh, he would!’ Pallas laughed sourly. ‘And how can Agrippina object? “You can’t have that woman in Rome”,’ Pallas mimicked Agrippina, ‘“I used her to poison the Emperor”.’ He fished amongst the scrolls on the desk and held one up. ‘There’s more. Nero hardly knew his father, and certainly never regretted his loss, but now our Emperor is suddenly all tender and dewy-eyed over his father’s memory. He’s planning to ask the Senate to pay the drunken, dropsical, dead Domitius special honours. I wouldn’t be surprised if some town or city, even Rome itself, isn’t forced to raise a subscription to have a beautifully carved statue of Nero’s degenerate father gracing some podium or the portico of a temple.’ Pallas let the scroll fall back on the table. ‘Nero doesn’t give a dog’s breath about his father, but Agrippina is going to find out that he doesn’t give a fig about anything: that old humbug Seneca has encouraged our Emperor into a course of action which he knows will offend Agrippina.’

  Pallas picked
up a thin parchment knife. He used it as a gladiator would a sword.

  ‘It’s prick, prick, scratch, scratch.’

  ‘But it won’t work,’ I retorted. ‘Agrippina is convinced of Nero’s love, his undying adoration and loyalty, so if he mocks Claudius’s memory, honours his dead father and employs the service of a well-known poisoner, how does that affect her position?’

  I was being deliberately naive. I knew the answer even before Pallas replied.

  He kicked the stool back and leapt to his feet, his podgy hands flailing the air. ‘Parmenon, Parmenon. You survived Tiberius, Caligula and Claudius: you know this is only the beginning. Seneca has yet to sink his teeth deeper into the bone. Now tell me, what has been Agrippina’s greatest achievement?’

  ‘You know that,’ I replied. ‘She managed to ensure that Nero became Emperor and Britannicus was disinherited. And, before you repeat yourself, Pallas, I know Seneca is now mocking us.’

  ‘But have you asked yourself why?’

  ‘Of course. He’s trying to drive a wedge between Agrippina and her son.’

  ‘Good, and what else?’

  ‘He’s trying to disassociate his pupil, our golden Nero, from the murder of the pathetic man who appointed him his heir.’

  ‘Good!’ Pallas agreed like a teacher.

  ‘At the same time,’ I added, ‘Seneca is quietly reminding Nero that he owes the throne to his mother and if one Emperor can be murdered . . .’

  ‘Exactly!’ Pallas agreed, sipping from his goblet. ‘They are,’ he searched for words, ‘they are trying to separate son from mother. Nero is the new Emperor, the golden boy of prophecy.’ He waved his hands. ‘Agrippina belongs to the past. She’s achieved her task, and should now retire. The next step will be to provoke Nero, who is an adolescent boy after all – Emperor or not – into full-scale rebellion against his overbearing mother. I’ll tell you a story: two days ago Agrippina brought Nero here, into the Chamber of Silver. Apparently he had given a generous sum of money to a friend. Agrippina, to make him realise its value, made me place the same amount in front of him on this table. Nero lolled in my chair as the slaves emptied out the bags of gold, examined it carefully, and then scoffed, “If I had known it was so little I would have doubled it.” He got to his feet and walked out, leaving Agrippina bemused.’

  ‘The impetuosity of youth,’ I commented. ‘More important are Seneca’s reasons for this attack.’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Pallas replied. ‘Seneca is sarcastic and bitter.’ He held up a hand. ‘He’s been exiled twice now by the imperial family. He loathed Corsica and its inhabitants, and despised their customs, their food and their drink. He regularly wrote begging letters to Caligula asking to have the exile lifted.’

  ‘And now he blames Agrippina for that?’

  ‘Yes, I think he hates the Augusta, and holds both her and her family responsible for his misery, so he’s going to settle his grudge once and for all. Seneca also likes wealth and power, and Agrippina has opened the door to both for him. Seneca, the former exile and philosopher, now has the chance to control both an Emperor and an empire, and he wants to do it by himself. He’d love to kiss Agrippina goodbye. So whilst Nero acts the angry, young man, Seneca will continue to plot. What do you think his next step will be, Parmenon?’

  I recalled Agrippina and her young son sitting in the gardens at Antium or her estates in Tusculum.

  ‘Nero is Agrippina’s Achilles heel,’ I replied. ‘She will make the same mistake that all mothers do. A mother’s love is limitless and unconditional, her loyalty is undying; like all mothers, she expects her son to reciprocate.’ I paused. ‘Seneca has demonstrated that Agrippina can be criticised with impunity. He’s depicted her as a greater fool even than Claudius, whilst also reminding Nero that she cleared his path to the throne. The next step Seneca will take is to start asking Nero if it is truly he that rules, or his mother? It will be easy to turn that young man’s head.’

  ‘And then what?’ Pallas demanded.

  ‘Seneca will go for the throat. He’s studied his young student very closely, and really it’s a matter of logic, isn’t it, Pallas? If Nero can be dominated by one woman, his mother, then why not another . . . ?’

  ‘Acte?’

  ‘Acte,’ I agreed. ‘She’s wealthy, civilised, courteous, extremely beautiful and alluring. She bears more than a passing resemblance to a young Agrippina. Seneca has chosen well. What do you know of her?’

  ‘Some say she’s a courtesan,’ Pallas replied. ‘Others claim she lives a chaste life, which will appeal to our Emperor. Apparently Seneca brought her into Rome and persuaded his friend Serenus to set her up in a house in a fashionable district. The young woman has been paraded before Nero like a prize mare. If rumour is to be believed, Nero’s interest in her is growing by the day.’

  ‘But all Emperors have favourites,’ I replied. ‘Nero is only seventeen, it will just be a passing infatuation.’

  ‘Oh, it will pass all right,’ Pallas agreed. ‘But Nero’s youth is his very weakness: he’s determined to show his mother that she’s no longer the most important woman in his life; that he loves Acte, or someone else, more than he does Agrippina.’

  I could see where Pallas was leading. Agrippina was truly vulnerable. She adored her son and, for the first time ever, would experience the pangs of jealousy.

  ‘Now we come to the purpose of this meeting.’ Pallas picked up a stack of coins and tossed them from hand to hand. ‘If Agrippina can be persuaded to keep her temper, to ignore Seneca’s provocation, to maintain a still tongue . . .’

  ‘All will be well,’ I finished.

  ‘All will be well. If Agrippina attacks, however . . .’ He threw the coins on the table. ‘Then the game is lost.’

  I left the treasury with Pallas’s warnings ringing in my ears. On that same day I begged for an interview with Agrippina and warned her exactly what Seneca was plotting. She laughed at my worries but promised to heed my advice, although I could see it was already too late. When I mentioned Acte, red spots of anger appeared high in her cheeks and her eyes narrowed. The damage was already done.

  ‘You could try and remove Seneca?’ I suggested.

  ‘Impossible.’ She shook her head. ‘If I have made one mistake in life, Parmenon—’ She smiled. ‘What am I saying? I’ve made many – Seneca must rank as my greatest. I’ll heed what you say.’

  She brought the interview to an end and was already at the door when she called my name.

  ‘Tell me, Parmenon, do you think Narcissus was mocking me with those games, that banquet?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Domina, I know. He may be a wounded animal but Narcissus is still dangerous.’

  Agrippina kept her head down. ‘Wounded you say? Thank you, Parmenon.’

  A few days later Narcissus was taken ill on a journey. He had barely left the city when the slaves heard moans and thrashing coming from the litter. They pulled back the curtain, to discover Narcissus hardly breathing, his skin clammy and cold, complaining of pains throughout his body. They hurried him back to Rome but it was too late, and Narcissus died, strangely enough close to Messalina’s tomb. Seneca sent Praetorians to his house, to search for papers and certain letters, but to his fury all they found were charred fragments: Narcissus, or someone else, had taken great pains to destroy any incriminating documents.

  Narcissus’s funeral rites were barely over when Nero despatched a letter to Pallas thanking him for his hard work at the treasury, and pointing out that, as the burdens of state must be affecting Pallas’s health, it was time he retired. Pallas had no choice but to agree. He left in style with an escort of German guards, the personal retinue of Agrippina, walking before him, as he sat enthroned in a litter. Eight Abyssinians carried it shoulder high whilst his servants and friends, slaves and household retainers trooped behind in a solemn procession. Nero watched him go, standing on the top step of the treasury. He waved goodbye, waggling his fingers as if Pallas was a fellow p
upil leaving a school.

  ‘Take care!’ the Emperor cooed.

  In one quick stroke Seneca had removed Agrippina’s most powerful and loyal ally. He returned to the attack. Acte appeared more and more in the Emperor’s retinue, and Nero singled her out for pleasant, private conversations, and quiet supper parties – just the two of them – followed by night walks in the gardens. He showered her with costly gifts, and granted her a suite of apartments in the imperial palace. Nero stopped visiting his mother as often as she wished, and even worse, when Nero wanted to be alone with Acte, Agrippina was shown the door.

  Agrippina became like a woman obsessed. Unable to sleep, she neglected affairs of state, and spent most of her waking hours railing at Acte and her son’s ingratitude.