Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) (2 page)

‘I shudder as I tell the tale’

Virgil,
Aeneid
: II.204

Was I in at the end? Naturally! Did I witness her murder? Of course I did! Did I survive? Well, I am here to tell the tale. Nevertheless, I sense the hidden meaning behind such questions. Yes, something in me died with her. I am only glad that, before we parted, she explained who she really was. I am Parmenon, servant to the Goddess, Domina Agrippina. When a star falls from heaven it never falls alone. I fell with her.

They tried to make it look like an accident, but of course it was murder. The monster Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, known as Nero, is a matricide, was a matricide, will be a matricide as long as time runs. Truth will out, be it in a blaze of fire or creeping like water through fissures and cracks. Domina was hardly cold in her grave when leather bags were hung on Nero’s statue. Do you understand the significance of that? It means that Nero should be stitched into such a bag and thrown into the Tiber, the just fate for an assassin! A baby was abandoned in the forum, with a tag on its cradle reading: ‘I WON’T MURDER YOU BUT I LEAVE YOU SO WHEN YOU GROW UP YOU WON’T MURDER ME’.

Domina’s statues were torn down but a wit daubed an inscription on one of the plinths, a quotation from the Classics: ‘I am disgraced, but you are ashamed.’ I especially liked one piece of graffiti for its cleverness: ‘A novel calculation: Nero= slew his own mother.’ A Greek must have written that. (Thank the Gods for the Classics.) Greek numbers are designated by letters of the alphabet, so to put it simply: Neron, in Greek, is equivalent to 1005; the phrase, ‘slew his own mother’ also comes to 1005. Nero would take some time to work that out, if he ever did.

Others were more blatant. Dartius, a performer of farces, at the end of one his shows, shouted: ‘Farewell, Father! Farewell, Mother!’ But, instead of waving goodbye at this point, Dartius imitated the gestures of drunkenness and swimming. It brought the house down though Dartius had to flee Rome by dead of night. The hypocrite Nero staged games to mark the death of his ‘Pia Mater’ – Agrippina had to be mourned. Nero, following the advice of his creature Anicetus, put on a splendid festival, the climax of which was a tightrope-walking elephant. Oh Gods, can you imagine it? An elephant walking a rope? Was that the imperial salute for the daughter of Germanicus, his own mother?

Let me tell my story from the end rather than the beginning. As in all things, it takes a woman to destroy another. In Domina’s case, it was that tasty morsel Poppea, wife of General Otho until she caught Nero’s eye. Poppea was a ripe grape ready for the plucking, with her beautiful face and a body so rich you’d groan at the very sight of it. Poppea the pretty; Poppea the petulant; Poppea with her sun-gold ring of curls; Poppea the spider; Poppea the assassin! Poppea was determined to share Nero’s bed. To achieve that she had to surmount a number of obstacles, which she did with consummate ease. Now, Poppea could easily remove her own husband as well as Nero’s wife; after all, in Rome, divorce was as common as murder. Otho was only too willing to give up his wife, whilst Nero and Octavia couldn’t stand the sight of each other. Both Octavia and Otho were quite prepared to leave the stage to the gorgeous, pouting Poppea, but not Agrippina. A woman who had survived the intrigues of Caligula, the machinations of Claudius, the murderous malice of Messalina? Agrippina was made of sterner stuff. Goddesses do not go into retirement. They either live for ever or die.

So, how do you kill the Queen of Poison? How do you wipe out someone schooled in the harsh atmosphere of the House of Livia, Augustus’s great wife? Agrippina knew every poison available. Her cupboards were full of the antidotes which she regularly took. Poisoning in Nero’s Rome was becoming virtually impossible. There was a legion of tasters, not to mention spies, in the kitchen. The principal rule at an imperial banquet was to eat only from a dish which had been carefully tasted beforehand. I’ve seen many a glorious supper come to an abrupt end at the slightest hint of indigestion amongst its guests. So you can understand Nero and Poppea’s problem. Right from the start they plotted Domina’s murder. However, whilst selling the bearskin is easy, trapping and killing its owner, to misquote the mischievous Petronius, ‘is a different kettle of fish’.

There is always the sword and in the end that’s what it came to, but how do you bribe someone to kill your mother, an Empress of Rome? So round and round and round the plotters went. Nero loved his mother, you’ll say, it must have been difficult for him. Nero loved nobody! His own father once remarked that anyone who inherited his and Agrippina’s blood would turn out to be a bad lot. He didn’t mean it as a prophecy, just a statement of fact. Oh yes, I’ve heard about the allegations of incest: the tumbling in the litter, the stains on Nero’s clothing. Just bear with me and I’ll explain them in due course. It’s the murder we begin with.

Agrippina, may the Gods bless her, suspected it was coming. We were in the gardens at her favourite villa at Antium. We were sitting, as we often did, wetting our feet in a fountain, with a bowl of grapes and a jug of wine between us. Agrippina was tense. She sat, as she always did when spinning her web, with her shoulders slightly hunched. A light sheen of sweat glistened on her full face; her black hair was tied tightly back, except for two corkscrew strands which fell over the ears. She was talking to herself, lips soundlessly moving. Now and again she would pause to chew on a grape and squint up against the sun. It was – is – a beautiful place with raised paths, greenery, flower beds, splashing water, shadowy porticoes and fragrant arbours. Just the spot to contemplate your own end.

‘We are all murderers, Parmenon!’ Agrippina’s tone was meditative, almost as if she was speaking aloud but unaware of anyone listening.

I could have objected, asked her to explain. It wasn’t the time. Agrippina turned and yawned, displaying those double canine teeth. Her lips were purple, grape-stained. I recalled the accusation that she was blood hungry: a killer born and bred, more ferocious than any animal in the amphitheatre. Those double canines only enhanced such a reputation, giving a slight twist to her lips. Yet this was offset by those lovely, well-spaced, dark eyes which could crinkle in amusement, flirt outrageously or glare in murderous passion.

Agrippina was very proud of her eyes. In her youth she used to remark, ‘Let me stare at a man long enough and he’s mine.’ It wasn’t so much a boast as the truth. I mean, listen to dramatists talking about characterisation and developing different personae. It’s nonsense! Most people are simple and boring. Their lives tend to be dominated by a few questions. How they look? Are they healthy? Will they earn a lot of money? Are they in or out of favour? Agrippina was different. You could tell that from her eyes: maternal, soft and tender, cold and dispassionate, amusing, seductive. Her moods could change so quickly. Oh, I concede she was dangerous. Any member of that family was dangerous!

She studied me closely in that lovely villa garden, a faraway look in her eyes.

‘Do you accept that, Parmenon? That we are all murderers? How long is my list?’

I gestured with my hand. She flicked a grape at me.

‘Come on, Parmenon, tell me. I know you’ve kept count.’

‘Domina, it’s so long, it would be easier to say who wasn’t on it!’

Agrippina laughed. My mind was already going through the table of names. Drusus, starved to death in his prison beneath the Palatine, reduced to eating the stuffing from his mattress. Sejanus, his strangled, cat-scratched body thrust into a sack and thrown down the Stairs of Mourning. Caligula, his plotting senators drawing their swords, abruptly realising that, despite all the fuss, he really wasn’t a god.

‘Come on!’ Agrippina urged.

I started to recite the litany. I had only listed seven names when Agrippina clapped her hands.

‘Enough! Enough!’ She smiled, her eyes all soft and kitten-like. ‘Aren’t you missing some out?’

‘Well, there’s dear Passienus . . .’

‘Oh yes, my second husband.’

‘And, of course, there’s . . .’

‘I know.’ She made a moue with her mouth. ‘Dear Clau . . . Clau . . . dear Claudius,’ she scoffed. ‘He did like mushrooms.’

Agrippina sat, swinging her feet, letting the water ripple through her toes, humming a song a gladiator had once taught her. Oh, she looked so beautiful with the sun shining, the air perfumed with roses and the scent of crushed grapes.

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Why what, Domina?’

‘Why did I murder? Why did I kill?’ She smiled at me with those butterfly eyes like a young girl teasing a teacher. ‘Shall I tell you why?’

I glanced away. Her words are the cause of this story. Shall I tell you why? That’s where my story begins and ends. For the first and last time, Agrippina, Domina Mea, was going to confess. She looked at me directly, no longer the coquette, the flirt, the imperial wife or mother. This was a soul-wrenching, haunted glance. Never once had Domina ever discussed this. Oh, she’d removed enemies. She’d plotted carefully but . . .

‘Why?’ I whispered.

I daren’t look round. Were the ghosts thronging in? Tiberius with his rotting body? Caligula playing with himself as he made love to the moon? Claudius with his lopsided face and quivering jaw, hobbling through the palace or purple-faced as he choked to death. Britannicus would be there, livid with poison. Would his ghost also carry the gypsum smeared over his corpse to conceal the poison’s noxious effects?

‘Why?’ Domina broke into my reverie.

‘Because you had to.’

She pulled a face. ‘Seneca could debate that till the sun froze over.’ She shook her head. ‘Because I enjoyed it? Not really, enemies are like old friends: you miss them when they are gone. No, I killed because I was born to kill.’ She stared at me, then burst out laughing. ‘Don’t sit there scratching that black mop, your shrewd eyes wet with tears.’ She prodded me gently on the tip of the nose. ‘Do you understand what I am saying, Parmenon?’

‘You were born to kill. It’s in the blood?’

‘The imperial blood is no different from any other. I don’t believe I am different from anyone else. No better, no finer.’ She splashed her feet in the fountain. ‘You don’t understand, Parmenon.’

‘I am trying to.’

‘Don’t be petulant.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Think of the amphitheatre. Its awnings are pulled out, the sand is raked, the crowd sits hushed and the gladiators strut into the arena. I always listen for the sound of the iron gate clanging behind them, locked and bolted. There’s no going back. They are to stand and fight, live or die. They raise their swords.’ She imitated the gesture of a gladiator. ‘“We who are about to die salute thee!” The Consul or the Emperor returns the salute. Do you know what I do at that moment, Parmenon?’

She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I whisper the words back: “We who are about to die also salute you”. That’s what we are, Parmenon, gladiators. When you’re born into the purple, you step into an arena. You either fight or die. It’s as simple as that. You can try and skulk away like Uncle Claudius did, and stay in the shadows but, eventually, the roar of the crowd and the whips of the lanistae will drive you into the centre. You either kill them or they kill you.’

I stared across the fountain.

‘Well, Parmenon?’

‘I thought you fought for power?’

Agrippina did not seem to hear.

‘Domina?’

‘If you are born into the imperial purple, life and power are synonymous, you can’t have one without the other.’

‘So you killed because you had to?’

‘No, Parmenon, it’s different. What you are saying implies choice. We fight, we murder because that’s our life. You know when the gladiators separate to choose their opponent – the net man against the swordsman, the Thracian against the Samnite? We are the same. I fought Caligula and, when he was gone, I turned to face my next opponent, Messalina, a victor from her fights. Now it’s Poppea. If I won there’d be someone else. If I lose, Poppea will take breath, and wipe the sweat from her brow just as she glimpses the shadow of her next opponent. There are no exceptions.’

‘Not even . . . ?’

‘No! Caligula slept with me, his sister. Claudius married me, his niece. You’re referring to my darling son, aren’t you? Can’t you see, Parmenon, in the arena, there can only be one victor.’

‘I’ve heard the prophecy,’ I remarked.

‘Prophecy?’ she mimicked. ‘You mean, the one from that old charlatan Thrasyllus. He wasn’t making a prophecy. He just knew the rules of the game. Shall I tell you how I could survive?’ Her eyes had that hard, venomous look. ‘Do you want me to spell it out, Parmenon? If I want to survive,’ she continued, ‘there’s only one way.’

‘Kill Poppea?’

‘No, Parmenon, kill my son!’

A bee buzzed hungrily from flower to flower. The moment had gone. Its peace shattered. Already I could hear the shouts of the workmen as they returned from their midday rest to continue work on the villa. They were re-roofing and patching up the walls where cracks had occurred. Until recently Agrippina had supervised their work but the looming crisis had diminished her interest.

I reflected on what had happened so far. Nero and Poppea were busy in Rome with little communication between Agrippina and her son. Domina had sheltered at Antium and waited for news. Eventually the silence was broken: Nero was coming south. He intended to stay at one of his villas at Misenum or Baiae. His cronies were coming with him: Otho, Anicetus and, of course, the lovely Poppea. Would there be a reconciliation between mother and son? Agrippina and her old friend Acerronia had discussed the matter excitedly: perhaps the old times were returning and Nero was missing his mother. Perhaps Poppea’s influence was on the wane! The clouds were lifting. I’d been present at such meetings, lying on my couch in the triclinium, with Acerronia chattering away and the actor Callienus sulking if Agrippina did not lavish her smiles on him.