Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) (6 page)

‘He’ll visit me,’ she murmured, ‘or he’ll invite me to his villa. You wait and see.’

Veronius continued his journey and Agrippina’s preparations became more frenetic. At last it happened. A bireme arrived on the coast. Officers of the Praetorian Guard marched up the shingle, along the white, dusty trackway and presented themselves at the main door of the villa. They delivered their invitation. The Divine Augustus, Nero, Emperor of Rome, intended to celebrate the feast of Minerva in his imperial villa at Baiae, and he wished Agrippina, ‘the best of mothers’, to be his honoured guest. If I hadn’t stopped her, Agrippina would have kissed them to death. Both officers stayed with us overnight, saying that the bireme would take Agrippina and her household across the bay the next day.

The villa was transformed: servants scurried about; chests and coffers were packed and taken down to the beach. Agrippina emptied her wardrobe, fiercely debating with Acerronia which shoes she should wear, which dress would best suit the occasion.

I travelled lightly, taking just my tunic, sandals, sword, writing implements and a small casket which carried antidotes to the best-known poisons. I also sought the company of the two Praetorians. Former centurions from the German legions, they were only too pleased to be away from the court and to sample the best wine from Agrippina’s cellars whilst sunning themselves in the garden. I introduced myself and let it be known that my father had been an officer in the Second Augusta. For a while we chatted. They were honest men, more interested in fighting, women and wine than in court scandal. Nevertheless, I picked up something: they found it hard to look me in the eye, and if I mentioned Poppea they became tight-lipped. When I reminded them that Agrippina was the daughter of the great Germanicus, they looked away, as if more interested in the flowers and herb plots. I had learnt enough. These men were not party to any plot but they had ears, quick wit and could sense the undercurrents of the court. I returned to the villa and urged Domina to be careful. Agrippina, however, was at her most stately.

‘Parmenon, you are like an old fishwife!’ she snapped. ‘The Emperor has come to Baiae. My son has returned.’

‘It could mean your death!’ I hissed.

Agrippina strode across, shut the door and returned with her eyes blazing. She stood only a few inches away from me. I could smell the herbs she used to sweeten her breath and noticed how the wine had purpled the corner of her lips.

‘I don’t care, Parmenon. If I die in his arms that’s enough for me. Do you understand?’

It was what I had always suspected. Agrippina loved Rome and power, the adulation of the legions, the right to appoint and dismiss, to grant life or death. Nero, however, she loved above all.

We left late that afternoon. Our slaves carried our baggage down to the beach where the marines were camped. We were taken out to the boat and, sails unfurled, the bireme turned, canvas snapping, oars splashing, to make its way across to the waiting glory of Baiae.

Agrippina lounged on a couch in the stern, flanked by Acerronia and Creperius. The sea was calm, just that gentle, undulating movement which always curdled my stomach. I ignored my seasickness and stared at the mist curling across the water. I was aware of the snapping sail, the creak of the rudder, the oarsmen ready to bend and pull, the cries of the pilot, the sharp orders of the captain. Could this be an ambush, I wondered? A trap? Yet the Praetorians seemed relaxed enough. They were dressed in half-armour and wouldn’t relish an accident at sea. The mist lifted, the afternoon sun grew stronger. Baiae came into sight, that den of sin, the playground of the rich and powerful. Green-topped hills overlooked white shingle and dark-green pines, the sun flashed on gleaming marble. Orders were rapped out. Agrippina prepared herself, trying to remain calm as, shielding her eyes, she studied the beach.

‘There’s a procession!’ she exclaimed. ‘Look, my son’s coming to meet me!’

I followed the direction of her eyes and saw the flash of standards, the sheen of gold. I glimpsed soldiers, slaves in white tunics, silk-caparisoned litters, following a group of men walking down onto the beach. Agrippina was as excited as a girl waiting to greet her parents. As the bireme was expertly beached, a guard of honour ran up, a troop of Praetorians who helped Agrippina ashore.

‘Mother!’ Nero came running down the beach, arms extended.

Agrippina hastened to meet him. They met in the most tender of embraces. He kissed her on the cheek, neck and breast before kneeling to hold her hand to his cheek. I studied the Emperor closely. He had got fatter, his reddish hair had been allowed to grow and was carefully coiffed and curled along the brow and nape of his neck. The barber had dusted it with gold. His cheeks and jowls were heavy, his neck thicker. He glanced past Agrippina. His perpetual frown, due to his short-sightedness, cleared and his popping blue eyes crinkled in a smile. I noticed his red-flecked beard and moustache and that he was dressed in the pale-green tunic of a lyrist. He got up, his pronounced paunch making his legs look even more spindly. He tightened the white silk handkerchief round his throat.

‘To protect my voice,’ he explained.

Nero wore no other ornamentation except an exquisite emerald monocle which hung from a gold chain round his neck. Nero had seen me clearly enough but he elegantly held up the monocle and peered.

‘Welcome, Parmenon.’ As he spoke, his voice squeaked and he looked alarmed and tapped his chest carefully.

He grasped his mother’s hand and walked over to me, studying me in that affected manner.

‘Your Emperor welcomes you.’

His hand snaked out. I fell on my knees and he patted me on the head affectionately, as if I was a spaniel, before adding insult to injury by brushing past me to greet Acerronia and Creperius.

‘Oh, you can get up now, Parmenon,’ he called over his shoulder.

I got to my feet, embarrassed by the mocking laughter from the small group which had accompanied Nero. They were all there. Seneca, the self-proclaimed great philosopher, grasping the folds of his toga as if he was to deliver a panegyric from the rostrum – Seneca of the balding head with the thick heavy features of a wrestler. He did not join in the laughter but raised his hand in salutation. Beside him was Burrus, dressed in elegant half-armour, his severe face impassive under close-cropped hair, and a look of distaste on his thin lips. He was a born soldier and ever ready to act the part. Tigellinus, dark as a Nubian, thin-featured, his eyes bright with malice, and that constant smirk on his ugly lips. A figure came from behind him: Anicetus, small, sallow-faced, dressed in a purple gold-lined toga, his arms hanging down like those of a monkey; the deep lines on each side of his mouth only increased the likeness. He’d led the laughter. My heart froze. I had forgotten about Anicetus: as Admiral of the fleet based at Misenum, he was one of Nero’s ‘masters of the sea’. He was the Emperor’s former tutor and he hated Agrippina with all the passion of his evil soul. For a short while I caught all their enmity, malice and hostility. From the likes of Anicetus, it came hot and bubbling; from Seneca and Burrus, it was cold and businesslike.

Behind me Nero was calling Agrippina the ‘best of mothers’ and profusely thanking the Praetorians and the captain of the bireme. It was all pretence! The blue sky, the dark line of greenery, the white shingled beach, the laughter and the greetings were a sham. We’d entered a trap. This was a death chamber: Agrippina would be lucky if she left with her life. Nero, however, was cavorting about. A tray of cups were distributed and toasts exchanged. Nero led his mother off, his arm round her waist, his head resting on her shoulder. They made their way from the beach up to the waiting litters, where the silk folds were pulled aside. Nero solicitously helped his mother up and climbed in with her. The Praetorian Guards, resplendent in their armour, circled it in a ring of steel. Tigellinus cracked a joke, and Anicetus bawled with laughter. Catching the word ‘litter’, I knew that they were resurrecting the old scandal that Agrippina had tried to seduce her own son whilst riding in a litter through Rome. The procession moved off, along the tree-lined trackway towards the imperial villa. Acerronia and Creperius took advantage of a second litter, but I decided to walk. Seneca and the others put as much distance between themselves and me as possible, but Burrus hung back. I decided not to waste time on niceties.

‘How dangerous is it?’ I asked. ‘Has the Augusta anything to fear from you?’

Burrus grabbed my wrist and squeezed it tightly. ‘Remember this, Parmenon,’ he whispered back, his dark brown eyes unblinking. ‘No soldier of mine will lift a sword against the daughter of Germanicus.’

‘But others might!’

‘I can only answer for Burrus,’ the Praetorian Prefect replied, ‘not the rest of the world.’ He released my wrist and walked quickly to join the rest.

We reached the tree-line and entered the broad avenue which cut through to the imperial villa. It was the first time I had been there since Nero had spent a lavish fortune turning it into a palace of the Gods. There were marble columns, glittering pavilions, gleaming white stone statues, gardens filled with every possible variety of shrub and tree. Torches and lamps were carefully placed to fend off the darkness. Everywhere, because of the feast, stood statues of Minerva in copper and bronze, garlanded with leaves and fresh flowers.

Agrippina and her household were given their own pavilion in the imperial grounds. If show was anything to go by, Nero did regard her as the ‘best of mothers’. No expense had been spared, no honour ignored. Even Agrippina was impressed by the sumptuous luxury of her reception and the quarters provided. The walls and floors of the pavilion were adorned with mosaics or lined with rare marble and mother-of-pearl. Exquisite diamonds, specially imported from the mountains of Asia Minor, had been lavishly used to decorate her private apartment. Agrippina’s bed was of scented wood, inlaid with gold and covered with the richest oriental tapestries, embroidered with pearls from Palestine in Arabesque designs. The walls of this luxurious bedchamber were lined with panelling, containing revolving tablets of ivory. These were set on pivots and could be turned to display different pictures. In the ceiling, a hidden machine could, at a touch, spray perfumes, whilst through the room ran a special conduit full of fragrant water. Agrippina was ecstatic. She really believed such opulence was an eloquent testimony to Nero’s love for her. The Emperor himself escorted her into the pavilion and showed her its glory before making his farewell, adding that we would all meet at a specially prepared banquet that evening.

‘You see!’ Agrippina exclaimed, once the imperial party had left. ‘Don’t you see, Parmenon, this is a fresh beginning.’

‘We are to return to Rome?’

‘We are to return to Rome.’ She smiled and, clapping her hands, shouted to the servants and slaves to make her quarters ready.

I supervised the baggage being brought in. I had a quiet word with Acerronia and Creperius. Everything was to be checked – the wine, the perfume, the sheets, the coverlets – for any trace of poison. I went outside. Dusk had fallen but the garden lights shed a golden glow, and I glimpsed armour: Burrus had apparently ringed Domina’s pavilion with a suitable guard. I trusted the Prefect but what of Nero?

Agrippina spent the rest of the day preparing herself. She bathed in the marble tub, Acerronia rubbing precious cream and perfume into her skin. She piled her hair up, holding it in place with jewelled pins and small ivory combs. She dressed in a white stola fringed with purple and gold, a lapis lazuli gorget round her throat, gold bangles on her wrists and ankles. She looked beautiful and spun on her heel, hands extended.

‘Look, Parmenon!’ she cried. ‘How can any son resist a mother like this?’

I could have wept at the sheer pathos. Agrippina looked as brilliant as some rare jewel. Yet here was the great Domina, Agrippina, daughter of Germanicus, mother of the Emperor of Rome, having to act like a courtesan to obtain what was naturally hers, Nero’s affections.

The Emperor, of course, played his part well and responded in kind. We dined in a special pavilion of silken cloth, the air sweet with roses and honey-suckle. The tables were arranged in a horse-shoe fashion with couches, covered in gold and silver cloth, ranged along the side. Torches, candelabra and scented oil lamps lit the darkness and, as Nero proclaimed, created an artificial day in Agrippina’s honour. He escorted her to the place of glory. I was left at the foot of the table. I was glad to be there, so that I had a good view of the rest. If Agrippina had decided to gather all her enemies together in one place, she couldn’t have done better. Seneca, Tigellinus, Burrus, Anicetus and, of course, smooth-skinned Otho smirking behind his hand. Only the golden Poppea was absent.

Musicians in the background provided music. Jugs of wine were circulated once again, and toasts were made. I saw Nero wink down the table at Anicetus and my blood ran cold. This feast may begin with laughter but it would end in tears, even death. I tried to appear distracted, as if more concerned with the nearby aviaries carved in the fashion of a temple, full of rare singing-birds, or the marble basins full of live fish which the guests could pick out for cooking. Servants and slaves of both sexes, the most beautiful Rome could supply, solicitously tended to every want. I tried to catch Agrippina’s eye but it was futile. She was only interested in Nero. As far as she was concerned, everything else was like the air we breathe, hardly to be noticed.

At last the banquet itself began. Fish, poultry and game were brought in, followed by a roast pig stuffed with live quails which flew away when the chef slit its belly. A troop of cooks entered, preceded by a line of musicians playing flutes. The chef carried a whole boar on a huge silver salver. When this too was cut, it was seen to be stuffed with pheasants, inside which were quails, which in turn were filled with ortolans. After each course the attendants returned, allowing us to wash our hands and face in perfumed water.