Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) (5 page)

And then he said the words that I was to remember, later.

‘Your son Nero is disgusted with the city. He claims there is nothing wrong with Rome that a good fire couldn’t cure.’

A cold breeze wafted in, chilling the sweat and silencing the conversation. All I could hear was the distant roar of the sea, the surf pounding the rocks, and the cry of the gulls as they swept in before the sun finally set.

Agrippina had listened carefully to Creperius’s chatter, allowing the servants to finish their tasks. Once they were gone, she unfastened the pearl ring from her right ear lobe. She dropped it into a small jar of vinegar and watched it dissolve.

‘Cleopatra did this once,’ she murmured. ‘She took a pearl worth one million sesterces and watched it crumble.’ She smiled. ‘An offering to the Gods.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in them,’ I retorted. Agrippina shrugged one shoulder. ‘Gods,’ she whispered. ‘Or just the approach of darkness? Well, Creperius, what other news from Rome?’

‘Seagulls are regarded as a delicacy. Amerlius has gone into mourning because one of his lampreys died.’

Agrippina made a cutting movement with her hand.

‘The real gossip,’ she demanded. ‘What of my son, the Emperor?’

‘He’s still being advised by Seneca.’

‘Our great philosopher,’ Acerronia mocked.

‘Burrus commands the Praetorian Guard.’

‘I put him there,’ Agrippina snapped.

‘Otho’s back from his travels.’

‘Is he now?’ Agrippina’s lip curled. ‘And does he still shave every hair of his body to make a toupee for his bald pate? Or rub his testicles against any sacred object he can find so as to make them stronger and more potent.’ She laughed. ‘If that succeeded I really would believe in the Gods!’

‘Tigellinus is also a rising star.’

‘May the Gods help us all if Tigellinus takes over.’ She paused, head down, staring from under her eyelids. ‘And Poppea Sabina?’

Creperius sipped at his wine. I studied him carefully. A wild thought occurred. What if he had been bought? Was he really Domina’s faithful spy and servant or had Nero seduced him like he had the rest? Creperius’s watery eyes shifted towards me. He must have read my thoughts, for he shook his head slightly.

‘Poppea Sabina?’ Agrippina demanded.

‘She rules the Emperor’s heart,’ Creperius retorted. ‘Nero’s wife Octavia remains lady of the shadows. Acte,’ he sniffed at the mention of the Emperor’s former mistress, ‘is no more than a wisp of smoke. Poppea walks Rome as if she were a goddess. She covers her face with a veil: her constant prayer is that she dies before the pure whiteness of her skin is tinged with age.’

‘I’d be happy to arrange that,’ Agrippina murmured.

‘She bathes every day in the milk of asses. The Emperor has arranged for four hundred of these beasts to be kept stabled for her use. Her porphyry bath is filled with the stuff. She spends hours examining her body in long mirrors of polished silver. Crocodile mucus is bought for her hands and her body is dried with swansdown, her tongue stroked with black ivy sticks to make it soft and velvety. She has masseurs from Africa, perfumers from Cyprus, the best dressmakers from Alexandria. She uses saffron powder to make her hair turn amber and has launched a new perfume, her own recipe, ambergris.’ Creperius gestured towards the jug of vinegar. ‘Only the finest pearls from the Red Sea will do for Poppea. Her shoes are of pure white kid, and their soles are gold-leafed. When Poppea walks, her feet tap like a dancer coming onto the stage. They say she practises every movement of her eyes, her mouth, her face, her hands. She knows all there is of love-making.’

‘And, of course, Nero is entranced?’ Acerronia spoke up.

‘He’s infatuated. Poppea is now divorced from Otho but still plays the reluctant maid.’

Creperius picked up a piece of shellfish. Agrippina seemed fascinated by a point beyond his head.

‘They are coming for me, aren’t they?’ Domina whispered.

I half rose from the couch. Agrippina’s face had a stricken look. Her gaze had shifted to a shadowy corner as if she could see things we couldn’t.

‘Who’s coming, Domina?’ I murmured.

‘They are all there,’ she replied. ‘Dark-blue rings round their eyes, mouths gaping . . .’

‘Domina!’ I said harshly.

She broke from the reverie. ‘So what, Creperius, is our little milkmaid saying to my son?’

‘Domina, this is only gossip.’

‘What is she saying?’ Agrippina’s voice rose to a shout.

‘Poppea demands if Nero is really Emperor of Rome. “The true ruler is your mother,” she rants. “All the important decisions are still hers”.’ And then Creperius repeated Poppea’s most bitter jibe, ‘“They call you Empress Nero and your mother Agrippina Emperor of Rome”.’

I looked at my mistress. She sipped at the Falernian, rolling it round her tongue as she did when she was deeply engrossed. This was a fight to the death: Poppea was a deadly adversary.

‘Poppea,’ Creperius continued, ‘is supposed to have given your son a gift wrapped in silk. When Nero undid the bundle all it contained was a golden coin displaying your head. “Why is this?” Poppea hissed.’

‘And?’ Agrippina broke in.

‘To give your son his due, Nero was confused. “I am an artist”, he replied. “That’s all I care about”. Poppea knelt at his feet. “And your mother?” the little hussy persisted, “saves you the trouble of being Emperor. She is always reminding the people, not that she’s Nero’s mother, but Germanicus’s daughter: that’s more important than your poetry.’

‘Who told you this?’ I asked, fearful of the effect this conversation might have on Agrippina’s raw nerves.

‘It’s chatter,’ Creperius replied defensively, ‘but the proof of the dish is in the eating. If I am wrong, why doesn’t Nero come here? Why doesn’t he invite Domina back to Rome?’

Agrippina slammed her goblet back on the table.

‘Parmenon.’ She pulled herself up from the couch and stared across at me. ‘How do you think it will come?’

‘What?’ I asked innocently.

‘My death.’

The supper room fell quiet. Even the sea seemed to hear her words, the roar of its waves now hushed.

‘He won’t go that far,’ Acerronia intervened. ‘He would be accused of matricide! To kill the daughter of Germanicus!’

‘No, he wouldn’t do it,’ I replied, ‘but others might do it for him.’

‘How?’ Agrippina’s voice grew strident. ‘Advise me, Parmenon, how?’

‘Not by poison: they’d have to get too close, and they know that you take every known antidote. Besides, the finger of suspicion would be pointed firmly at him.’

‘The dagger?’ Agrippina asked.

‘Too blunt and bloody,’ I retorted. ‘Again the trail will lead back to him. No, Domina, I think we’ve had our warning. An accident. Something which can be explained away like a collapsing roof.’

Agrippina laughed abruptly.

Creperius spoke up. ‘Or perhaps the August Nero will allow his honourable mother to live in peaceful retirement?’

‘Nero will,’ Agrippina offered. ‘But Poppea won’t. My father always advised, “Know your enemy!” If I were Poppea, I would be plotting my rival’s death. She’s no different.’ Agrippina looked at me archly. ‘She’s the gladiator I have to kill.’

‘We could strike first,’ I continued. ‘Kill Poppea. Poison her asses milk. Put some filthy potion into the powder with which she adorns her face and hands.’

Agrippina shook her head.

‘No, she’ll be waiting. The others would seize the opportunity to accuse me.’ She beat on the table top with her fingernails. ‘What will happen?’

‘Exile?’ Acerronia spoke up. ‘Perhaps the Emperor will exile you to some distant island or the wilds of Britannia?’

‘We could flee,’ I urged. ‘Go north to Germany, and seek the protection of one of the legates?’

Agrippina wasn’t listening.

‘Bring Salvara,’ she murmured. ‘Hurry!’ She snapped her fingers. ‘I want her now!’

Salvara was a witch, a local wise woman who lived in a hut amongst the pine-clad hills behind the villa. I left and sent servants to fetch her. I was surprised when they returned immediately with the old woman between them. She was a bony bundle, dressed in rags stinking of the unguents and potions she distilled. Youthful clear grey eyes full of mockery gazed out of Salvara’s lined face.

‘I was already on my way,’ she announced, her tone cultured and refined. I recalled rumours that, many years ago, she’d played the great lady in Pompeii.

‘How did you know?’ I asked.

‘I’d like to say I’d divined it but the news is all over the countryside that the Augusta has received a messenger from Rome, and a festive banquet has been held.’ She cocked her head slightly. ‘Yet I can hear no music or singing.’

‘It’s not that type of banquet,’ I replied. ‘The Augusta waits.’

I took her down the colonnaded portico. Agrippina had been drinking more quickly, her face was slightly flushed, her eyes enlarged and glittering. Salvara bowed and squatted before the table.

‘I knew you would need me.’

She undid her small leather sack, laid out the bones on the floor and, opening a small stoppered phial, sprinkled these with blood. Without asking permission, she took Agrippina’s goblet and sipped from it before mixing the wine with the blood. Salvara stirred the bones, praying quietly to herself. I have never believed in the black arts, although I have seen many tricks that would take your breath away. Some of the best mountebanks in the empire have performed their games before me. Agrippina was as sceptical as I, but Salvara, like Joah the Jew, was different: there were none of the tricks, the theatrical gestures and the high drama of the professional charlatans. Only an old woman crouched before Domina, staring down at the bones, crooning softly to herself. The song was like a lullaby a mother sings to a fretful child. My eyes grew heavy. I shook myself and looked around. Creperius and Acerronia lolled on their couches as if they’d drunk deeply. Agrippina only had eyes for the witch. The chamber grew very warm, and a wind blew in, dry and sharp like that from the desert.

‘What do you see, Mother?’ Domina asked. ‘Has the veil lifted?’

‘What do you want me to see?’ came the sly reply.

‘My fate.’

‘Death!’ came the answer.

‘We are all to die, Salvara, but how, why, when?’

‘When, I cannot say.’

Some of the oil lamps guttered out. The darkness around Salvara grew more intense.

‘Will I be reconciled to my son?’

‘Before you die you shall be reconciled,’ came the tired, slow reply.

Salvara had her eyes closed, rocking herself backwards and forwards, her fingers pressed to the floor.

‘And whom should I fear?’

‘The master of the sea.’

‘The master of the sea? Will I drown?’

‘You shall not drown, Domina, but be wary of the master of the sea!’

‘Neptune?’ I called out.

Salvara wasn’t listening. ‘You shall be reconciled, Domina, and receive your son’s sweet embrace and loving kiss. But, remember my words, be careful of the master of the sea!’

The old woman’s head drooped. The warmth dissipated. Agrippina, her eyes brimming with tears of joy, toasted me silently with her cup.

‘No one ever becomes depraved overnight’

Juvenal,
Satires
II. 83

Agrippina was a changed woman. Salvara had said that she would be reconciled with Nero, so she thought it was only a matter of waiting. Once again the villa became a place of light, and musicians and dancers were hired. Agrippina spent more time out in the garden, tending flower beds, gossiping with Acerronia. It was all sun, no shadow. I tried to advise her to act prudently. She may have heard, but she certainly didn’t listen. She spent more time on her appearance, hiring hairdressers, buying perfumes and pastes. She even went out to apologise to the chickens and made us all laugh with the little mime she concocted. I hadn’t the heart to remind her that she was still in the arena and the game had yet to begin. Would Poppea give up? I knew Nero for what he was: a spoilt, depraved actor who could play any part the mood suited him. I was troubled by the phrase ‘master of the sea’. What had Salvara meant by that?

Not being superstitious, I decided it was only a matter of logic. Since no one would dare draw a dagger, or so I thought, against the daughter of Germanicus, and poison was ruled out, Agrippina’s death would have to appear an accident. I took matters into my own hands. I patrolled the garden at night, checked doors, paid out money for information to the pedlars and tinkers who wandered the roads.

Antium became busier as the weather improved and the people left the city to take the sea breezes. Our next visitor was that doddering old fool, the banker Quintus Veronius with his balding head, perpetually dripping nose and eyes which looked as if he never stopped crying. He’d made a fortune in the Egyptian corn trade and spent most of his wealth raising peacocks. He’d once made the mistake of inviting Caligula to dinner. Our madcap Emperor arrived and spent most of the evening shooting at the birds from a balcony. The peacocks died and Veronius had a nervous breakdown. He’d retired to Campania and spent his life in mourning until Caligula’s murder. Veronius was a fool, who could be used by anyone. He arrived at the villa in his cumbersome litter as if it was a chance visit, but of course, he’d been sent deliberately. The news he brought only delighted Agrippina further.

‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ Veronius slobbered over his wine. ‘The Emperor, Augusta, is full of your praises. He’s banished two actors from Rome for their lying attacks on your Majesty.’

‘And Poppea?’ I asked wearily.

‘She’s seen less and less. There is news,’ Veronius continued, ‘that Nero is to visit Baiae.’

Every wrinkle disappeared from Agrippina’s face, which became as smooth and creamy as that of a young girl.