Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) (12 page)

‘And you can vouch for all this?’

‘I know the truth, Excellency.’

‘The truth?’ A short, barking laugh. ‘If you know the truth, Parmenon, you are, truly, a very fortunate man. You are both dismissed!’

We got up from the cushions, bowed and backed out of the chamber. The Minion was very restless. Red spots appeared high on his cheeks and his agitation only deepened as Macro told him to wait whilst beckoning me to follow him. I crossed the small atrium. Macro pushed me into a doorway, told me to stay there and walked off. The door opened and a hand dragged me inside. Gaius Caligula grinned at me. Believe me, they were a family of fine actors! Gaius’s face had changed, it was no longer slack and vacuous, his eyes were a strange light-blue, and his mouth and jaw more composed. He grasped me by the shoulder, and I smelt his wine-drenched breath.

‘Well? Does she love me?’

‘Agrippina . . . ?’

‘Not her! Drusilla!’ Gaius snapped, referring to the younger sister.

‘Of course, your Excellency!’

Gaius wetted his lips. ‘And what do you think of the old cadaver?’ His eyes widened and he giggled behind his fingers. ‘That’s what I call Tiberius. Did you see his face?’ he continued. ‘There are bits dropping off. The Gods should call him home, eh?’ Gaius’s eyes gleamed.

Was he mad, I wondered? Or had he taken some juice which stirred his soul and excited his wits.

‘You’ll see such sights here, Parmenon, believe me! I don’t like your companion,’ he continued breathlessly. ‘Sejanus’s turd dropped hot from his anus.’

I stared round the room: it was some sort of writing office with one window overlooking the garden.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Caligula reassured me. ‘The cadaver can’t hear us. Right, what did Agrippina say?’

I delivered Domina’s message, and Gaius almost did a jig from foot to foot.

‘Got him! Got him! Got him!’ he murmured.

He danced away, a grotesque sight with his tall, stooping figure and his strange hair, leaping from foot to foot, hands raised like some priest in a trance. He danced back to me.

‘Say it again! Say it again!’

I delivered the full message. Caligula was quick. In spite of his excitement, he’d already memorised it and, opening the door, he pushed me out. Macro was waiting, helmet under his arms. He stretched out his hand. I noticed the bracelet on his wrists, which bore a carving of Castor and Pollux. I had seen a similar one in Agrippina’s chamber. Macro drew me close.

‘You did well there, Parmenon.’

‘How did the Emperor know?’ I gasped.

Macro stepped away, playing with the bracelet.

‘Because he’s a God.’

And, turning on his heel, he led me back to join the Minion, who was in a state of almost nervous collapse: one moment sitting on the marble stone wall bench; the next walking up and down.

‘This has never happened before!’ he whined. ‘Never before!’

I looked round the atrium. Macro had disappeared. The door to Tiberius’s chamber was guarded by two burly German ruffians who stood, shields in one hand, drawn swords in the other. The Minion came up and clapped me on the shoulder.

‘I hope that bitch hasn’t been up to mischief.’

I clicked my tongue and smiled. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ I mocked.

Another hour passed. The doors of the chamber were thrown open and Macro beckoned us forward. We walked in. Tiberius looked as if he hadn’t moved. Gaius was standing beside him, immobile as a statue. We went to kneel before them.

‘Not you!’ Tiberius’s voice grated.

I looked up. Tiberius was gesturing at the Minion. He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at the garden wall.

‘You certainly know how to lie!’ Tiberius accused. ‘You lied to your Emperor! So, let’s see if you can fly as well!’

And, before the Minion could protest, the two German auxiliaries who had followed us in, grasped him by the arm and dragged him out into the garden. They pulled him to the edge of the parapet and tossed him over. Dreadful screams shattered the silence. Tiberius made himself comfortable on the chair.

‘You see, Macro,’ he joked. ‘I told you he couldn’t fly!’

‘No sober man dances, unless he is mad’

Cicero,
Pro Murena

For a while the Emperor sat in silence as if savouring what had happened. Caligula had stepped back so the Emperor couldn’t see his face, shaking with giggles. The two German mercenaries watched the body fall and then left.

I heard a singing bird trill out its sweet song, and the buzzing of a bee, which surprised me as it was so early in the season. I could only wonder whether I would be next?

‘Kneel back, Parmenon.’

I did so.

‘Look at me! Forget Sejanus’s advice! Look at me!’

I did so. The Emperor studied me closely.

‘Are you a kinsman of Sejanus?’

‘A very distant one, Excellency.’

‘And can you fly, Parmenon?’

‘No, Excellency, I can only swim.’

The Emperor threw his head back in a neighing laugh. ‘Are you a liar, Parmenon?’

‘Excellency, I do not know what the truth is.’

‘Ah, quite the philosopher. Now, Parmenon, relax, you are not going to fly. Just repeat your message.’

Caligula had moved even further back, his face now alert. He shook his head imperceptibly and tapped his cheek. ‘Do not mention me,’ he was saying.

I learnt a lot during that interview. Caligula was acting to survive. He was plotting against the Emperor. Macro, who must have seen his secret gestures, was his accomplice. I repeated the secret message, Agrippina’s last words to me. Tiberius’s face grew livid.

‘Do you know what she means about Drusus?’ he snapped.

‘I don’t understand, Excellency. Drusus is a prisoner in the Palatine.’

‘She wasn’t talking about that Drusus,’ Tiberius retorted. ‘My son was also called Drusus!’

I swallowed hard. Of course, I’d forgotten that. On his death the rumours had come thick and fast. Many said Tiberius’s son had died of overindulgence, whilst other rumours claimed he’d been poisoned. Tiberius took a nut, crushed it in his hand, daintily picked out the fragments and ate them.

‘I have a strong hand, Parmenon. Do you know I can poke a child’s head and smash his skull?’

He didn’t wait for an answer.

‘Macro!’ He summoned the commander of the guard forward.

‘I want letters despatched to Rome. Our friend Parmenon will stay here for a few months. Well, well, we’ve got business, we’ve got business!’

I was dismissed with a flick of the fingers. My enforced sojourn at Capri had begun.

Tiberius moved as carefully as a spider weaving its web. He enjoyed the game: he sent letters to Sejanus swearing eternal friendship, and extending his condolences on the death, ‘from a fever’, of his Minion. He wrote that he wanted me to stay for a while. He even began to hint that Sejanus would be given tribune powers and be allowed to marry Tiberius’s widowed daughter-in-law, Drusus’s wife. At the same time, passage to and from the mainland was strictly controlled. For the rest I discovered how bizarre Tiberius’s existence on Capri really was. Sometimes he could be indulgent, at other times ruthless. A soldier who stole a peacock from the aviary was crucified on the cliff tops. On another occasion when Tiberius was being taken by litter from one villa to another, the bearers stumbled over a bramble bush in their path: the centurion responsible was flogged within an inch of his life.

Tiberius’s sexual exploits fascinated me. Capri was a hotbed of sexual intrigue. Macro was married to a beautiful, dark-haired girl called Aemilia. To win Caligula’s favour, Macro acted as her pimp and Aemilia was a constant visitor to Caligula’s villa. Tiberius’s practices, however, were more bizarre. All the rumours about him were true. He had his own private bawdy house where sexual extravangazas were staged for his secret pleasure. Young men and women from all parts of the Empire, adept in unusual sexual practices, would be encouraged to congregate before him in groups of three or four to excite his flagging passion. This bawdy house consisted of a number of rooms decorated with the most obscene pictures and statues available. It even boasted a small library with erotic manuals from Egypt so these sexual athletes could learn exactly what was expected of them.

Macro led me on a tour of all this, like a Roman taking a provincial visitor round the city. The rooms were opulently decorated, drenched in perfume, furnished with couches and stools for the Emperor and his coterie of favourites. Spy-holes had been drilled in the walls, floor and ceiling. The ‘Sexual Athletes’, as Macro called them, were confined to their own private apartments. They wined and dined on the most exquisite aphrodisiacs and were under strict orders to save their energies for the Emperor alone. Macro also took me into the woods. Special glades had been set aside where boys and girls, dressed as Pans and nymphs, prostituted themselves in caves or grottoes. No wonder the wits had re-named Capri ‘the Place of the Goat.’ Macro hinted at other obscenities.

After from my initial interview with the Emperor I became, to all intents and purposes, Macro’s creature. On one occasion he asked about Agrippina. Was she well? How did she look? Her husband Domitius? Had she taken new lovers? I was pleased I could tell the truth: I knew nothing.

‘What will happen?’ I asked, trying to change the topic of conversation.

‘Be careful,’ Macro warned. ‘Tiberius can be excitable and as changeable as the moon. Letters have been despatched to Rome with conflicting messages. Sejanus doesn’t know whether he’s on his head or his arse, if he’s still the Emperor’s favourite or not.’

Macro scratched the tip of his nose.

‘Tiberius could play this game for months, even years. He might forget it or change his mind.’

‘And me?’ I asked.

‘Are you so desperate to get back to Agrippina?’ Macro sneered. ‘Quite a little courtesan, isn’t she? Her brain teems like a snake pit. You should be careful, Parmenon. Tiberius might decide he can’t do without Sejanus.’

‘And Caligula?’ I asked.

Macro breathed in.

‘According to all the rules, Gaius Caligula should be dead. To understand Caligula you have to understand Tiberius’s mind. I can speak to you bluntly, Parmenon, because no one would believe you if you were to repeat what I say. Tiberius is nourishing Caligula as he would a viper; that young man is to be Tiberius’s revenge on Rome.’

‘And yet you support him?’ I bit my lip immediately.

‘Do I?’ Macro taunted, drawing his brows together. ‘I support no one, Parmenon, except the Emperor. You are new to this game, aren’t you?’ He drew closer. ‘Remember the first and only rule: keep your mouth shut!’

I soon grew tired of Capri and I missed Agrippina. I would have loved to have sent a message but that would have been dangerous, even foolish.

At the beginning of October I was still wondering how I could arrange my departure from Capri when Macro aroused me before dawn on one cold, dark morning.

‘Get dressed!’ he urged. ‘Quickly, we are for Rome!’

Two biremes stood ready in the harbour; one full of marines dressed in half-armour, a savage-looking bunch totally under Macro’s command; the second bireme contained members of Tiberius’s own personal guard. We clambered aboard and within the hour were heading for a pre-arranged spot somewhere to the south of Rome. No imperial colours were shown and Macro took advantage of the sea mist, as well as the early hour, to keep well clear of the normal shipping lanes. The pilot guided us in, and both biremes beached in a sandy cove some miles south of Ostia. We came ashore like an invasion force: scouts were sent out; fires were lit and breakfast cooked; sentries were deployed. We spent the rest of the day bringing supplies ashore whilst spies crept in from Rome. The news they brought was favourable, the Senate was to meet the following morning.

Once darkness fell Macro marched his troops along the coastline. It was still dark when we reached the Viminial Gate, where Macro displayed the imperial passes and we were allowed entry. How strange to be back in Rome! I was desperate to see Agrippina but Macro’s orders were strict: the will of the Emperor was to be carried out and I was Macro’s accomplice. The marines and bodyguard marched to the Palatine where Macro concealed them in a small park. He took off his own armour and, in the torchlight, washed and shaved and put on clothes appropriate for a visitor to the Senate. We went up the Palatine, into the exquisitely beautiful heart of Rome with its fluted columns and finely carved statues. The great temple of Apollo, built of gleaming Parian marble, its vast doors inlaid with ivory, dominated this lavish concourse. The Senate was scheduled to meet that morning.

I felt giddy, slightly nervous. It was such a bewildering contrast to the solitude of Capri with its tangled woods, sinister secrets and silent villas. Dawn broke. Macro, easily hiding his tension, sat on a marble bench at the top of the steps leading into the temple; whilst the officers of the marine guard and I stood behind him. The sky turned a blue-pink as the sun began to rise. The braying of horns and conch blasts shattered the silence as the city came to life. Senators appeared, dressed in their white togas, with scribes and house retainers behind, carrying parchment and leather bags. They all stared nervously at Macro who nodded but sat impassive.

Sejanus, of course, had heard the news of our arrival and came hurrying up with his entourage. No longer so calm and self-possessed, he looked red-eyed and wary. Macro rose to meet him, but Sejanus waited at the foot of the steps until his Praetorians deployed around him in a semi-circle: a grim threatening ring of steel. The soldiers were dressed in their red and leather kilts, greaves, boots, embossed breast-plates, and plumed helmets. Each carried an oblong shield, and all had their swords drawn.

‘Macro!’ Sejanus raised his hand in salute. ‘I heard you had come from Capri. I was growing impatient. The Emperor has sent messages?’