Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) (8 page)

‘You are still wet,’ she murmured. ‘Dry yourself off.’

I stripped, changed, wrapped one of the blankets round me and rejoined her. Agrippina had now grown more composed. She stared out through the window at the starlit sky.

‘We are creatures of the night, Parmenon,’ she whispered. ‘It’s finished, isn’t it?’

‘It’s always been finished,’ I replied. ‘Ever since Poppea walked into Nero’s court.’

She sighed. ‘They’ll have to complete the job, Parmenon. They won’t let it rest. The slaves and servants have fled. Poor Acerronia.’ A tear trickled down her kohl-smeared cheek. ‘And Creperius, gone with the rest.’ She nudged me. ‘You should flee too. They’ll kill you. They won’t allow any witnesses to survive.’

‘I’ll stay. My life, Domina, is yours.’

She turned, her eyes wrinkled up in a smile, that dazzingly beautiful woman I’d met so many years earlier.

‘You are good, Parmenon.’

She kissed me lightly on the lips and brushed my face with the tip of her finger.

‘If I had listened to you . . .’

‘You can still do that,’ I urged. ‘You could flee, seek refuge with the legions.’ My voice faltered.

She pressed a finger against my lips.

‘You and I both know that’s not possible. Every road and trackway will be watched and sealed.’ She put down her wine and stretched her hands towards the charcoal brazier. ‘Isn’t it strange, Parmenon? We first met on the feast of Minerva, at the games in the amphitheatre near the Campus Marius.’

I cradled my own cup. My mind going back . . .

‘Woe is me: I think I’m becoming a God’

Suetonius, ‘
Lives of the Caesars
’: Vespasian

‘
Sic Habet
!
Sic Habet
! Let him have it! Let him have it!’

The crowd thundered in one great roar, people on their feet leaning forward, thumbs pointing to the ground: the populace of Rome shrieking for a man’s life. I watched the arena, where Sullienus, in Thracian armour, had brought down Callaxtus the net man. The latter hadn’t fought very well; he had been clumsy and frightened, although admittedly, I myself was not the most stalwart of warriors. Although it was early spring the amphitheatre was hot and close. The stench of cooking sausages, oil, human sweat and blood seeped everywhere. Sullienus turned, sword raised towards the imperial box draped in purple and gold. I was sitting at the back. The Emperor was not present: Tiberius was ensconced to Capri, taking his cronies, vices and power with him. Rome was under the careful scrutiny of Sejanus, Prefect of the city, Commander of the Praetorian Guard.

As Caesar’s right hand, Sejanus also controlled the secret police, which is where I come in. My father had died, his remains buried somewhere in the Teuterborg forest, and my mother had not long survived his death, wasting away to skin and bones. Before she died, though, she had hired a scribe and dictated a letter on my behalf to her distant kinsman Sejanus. He hadn’t bothered to meet me himself, but had delegated the task to one of his minions. I had expected a posting in the army, as I had done some military service or, in view of my education, a benefice in the courts or treasury. Instead Sejanus’s minion (I forget his name but remember his face), sat on the corner of a table and scrutinised me carefully.

‘You don’t look Roman.’ He got up and walked round, examining every inch of my close-cropped head. ‘Swarthy, aren’t you? Are you sure you’re Roman? I’d wager you were Numidian or Mauretanian?’

‘I’m Roman. My mother’s family are of Spanish blood.’

‘Ah,’ the Minion replied. ‘I see you can read and write, have done service with the auxilaries and that your father was killed in Germany?’

‘He was a centurion,’ I replied. ‘In the Second Augusta until he was swept up in Varus—’

‘Shush!’ The Minion tapped me on the shoulder. ‘The first lesson of the imperial court is that you never mention Quintilius Varus, his legions, or his defeat.’

He walked away as if still shocked by my utterance. I sat and stared. The Minion was correct. No one wanted to know about Varus, and how he had led his legions into snow-bound forests only to be ambushed. They say the massacre took almost a week as the Germans broke the legions and hunted them down amongst the dark, demon-infested trees. When Germanicus invaded, to reclaim Rome’s honour and its lost eagles, he found the remains of Varus’s armies strewn over miles: bones heaped in glades; skulls nailed to tree trunks; the charred flesh of those burnt on altars or sacrificed in wicker baskets.

‘So, you are a kinsman of Dominus Sejanus. But a very distant one, aren’t you? I’ve done a little research on you, Parmenon. They say you are surly, taciturn, but a good listener. Is that true?’

‘I am listening to what you say,’ I replied.

The Minion laughed at my joke.

‘We need men like you, Parmenon. His excellency Dominus Sejanus needs eyes and ears. Would you be his eyes and ears, Parmenon?’

I knew all about Dominus Sejanus. ‘You mean a spy, an informer?’

I kept my face impassive, but I was angry. I may be many things, but I am no traitor. The Minion was insulting me. His excellency Dominus Sejanus was insulting me but . . . I had no family, no prospects, no money. Moreover, if I refused this offer, I had no doubt something rather unpleasant would happen. Men like Sejanus don’t allow you to refuse such a proposal and then walk away.

‘I would be his excellency’s faithful servant,’ I replied and made a secret sign with my fingers, a childish trick to ward off the effect of a lie.

‘Good!’ the Minion exclaimed. He shifted his cloak and sat down behind his desk. It was a tawdry little chamber in an outbuilding of the Palatine Palace. He picked up a piece of parchment.

‘Do you know Domina Agrippina?’

‘Which one?’ I replied.

The Minion laughed. ‘The younger one. Sixteen years old and sweet with it, so the men say.’

‘You are talking about the daughter of Germanicus?’

I enjoyed doing that. The Minion furrowed his brow, realising his mistake. He could joke with impunity about many things but nobody joked about our great Roman hero Germanicus, the general who’d invaded Germany to retrieve Rome’s honour.

‘Ah well.’ The Minion cleared his throat. ‘Domina Agrippina needs a scribe, a secretarius.’

‘And you need a spy?’ I added.

He raised his close-set eyes, a sly grin on his face.

‘You are very blunt,’ the Minion whispered.

‘I want to be very clear about what I am to do.’

‘I think you know full well,’ the Minion replied. ‘Let’s see, in a week’s time on the feast of Minerva,’ he clicked his tongue, ‘his excellency will chair the Games held in the Divine One’s honour. Agrippina and her family,’ he smirked again, ‘what’s left of them, will be his excellency’s guests in the imperial box. You’ll receive authorisation to join them there, and can introduce yourself to Domina Agrippina.’

‘What happens if she doesn’t want me?’

‘I don’t give a fart whether she wants you.’ He mimicked my voice. ‘Or likes you. You’ll carry a letter, sealed by his excellency, stating very clearly that you are now a member of her household.’ He scratched the side of his cheek and wafted away a buzzing fly.

I stared behind him at the bust of Tiberius, the Divine One, sitting on its plinth. The sculptor hadn’t simply flattered: he was guilty of a downright lie. The head looked like that of a young Greek athlete, the hair brought forward to fringe the noble brow, the long nose, deep-set eyes and generous mouth. I’d seen Tiberius from afar. His skin was scabby, his right ear stuck out, he had lost his teeth and his breath, so they said, reeked like a sewer. Naturally I kept such observations to myself. The Minion pushed a scroll across, followed by a very small leather bag which clinked. I was hired. I took both letter and money, and a slave ushered me out through the back entrance.

So, there I was, on the feast of Minerva, sitting in the imperial box watching a man prepare to die. In fact, I hadn’t really followed the fight. I was more concerned by Domina Agrippina who also sat, next to her two sisters, on one of the raised benches at the back. I wondered about her brother Gaius Caesar – known as Caligula or ‘Little Boots’ – until I recalled that Tiberius had decided to take him to Capri.

I was fascinated by Domina. She was only sixteen but acted as if she was twice that age. She was dressed in the usual finery: a white stola, and a brocaded shawl across her shoulders which carried a small hood that she’d pulled up over her black glossy hair. Another of Sejanus’s minions had introduced me to her. I kissed her perfumed hand and delivered the commission. She undid the purple cord, read the scroll, tossed it to lie between her feet and totally ignored me. I studied her face, with its high cheekbones, the nose just a little too long, the slight enlargement of her right cheek due to her double canine teeth, and her lower lip jutting out as if in a pout. It was the eyes which held my gaze. I couldn’t decide whether they were dark-blue or black but they were large, lustrous and full of life. She’d peered at me as if she was short-sighted, though this was only a mannerism she’d developed. Nevertheless, with those long eyelashes, it gave the impression that she was just waking from a deep, sensuous sleep. As she watched Sullienus, now and again the tip of her tongue would come out. Apart from that she sat impassive, hands clenched in her lap. Abruptly she turned and said, her voice surprisingly low, ‘Are you wondering where my husband is?’

‘Domina,’ I replied. ‘That is none of my business.’

‘Yes, it is,’ she retorted cheekily and moved slightly towards me.

I smelt her perfume, faint but aromatic, reminding me of sandalwood.

‘That is your business, isn’t it, Parmenon? Spying? Aelius Sejanus will be asking you, “At the games, where was the little bitch’s husband, Domitius Ahenobarbus”?’

She talked as if we were alone in some private chamber. Agrippina was cunning, and she’d chosen her moment carefully. Everybody else was shouting, and stamping their feet, eyes fixed on the arena, including the spy who would no doubt be spying on me to make sure that I spied on Agrippina.

‘My husband,’ she continued, eyes widening, ‘is in some brothel on the road to Ostia. He’ll no doubt be drunk with his head in a whore’s lap. He smells like a goat and he acts like one but I can’t really complain as our Divine Emperor himself chose my husband. I, however, reserve the right to choose my bed companion. Now,’ she smiled. ‘What do you think? Should Callaxtus die?’

‘Domina, he should live.’

‘I agree.’

She stretched out her hand, thumb pointing to the ceiling of the imperial box.

‘
Vivat
!’ she cried. ‘
Vivat
! Let him live! Let him live!’

Heads turned. I moved the stool, peering through the assembled notables; the generals, the senators, the priests and Vestal Virgins. I looked for Sejanus’s lean, saturnine face, his iron-grey hair combed carefully forward, his gentle smile, those wide-spaced eyes. He, too, had heard Agrippina shout. He turned, a smile on his lips, scratching the tip of his nose, and narrowing his eyes as if searching out who was shouting against the crowd. He saw Agrippina, winked and lifted his hand. I moved my stool to stare down into the arena. Sullienus had taken his helmet off. He stood sweat-soaked, sword up in salute, waiting for Sejanus’s sign. The Prefect stretched out his hand, thumb extended. I knew he was about to give Callaxtus life but at that moment the fallen gladiator did something very stupid. Whilst Sullienus’s back was turned, probably because he could no longer stand the tension, Callaxtus picked up his trident and lunged at his opponent’s exposed thigh. Sullienus was too quick – perhaps he had seen the shadow or heard a sound? – and, stepping nimbly to one side, he turned and drove his sword straight into Callaxtus’s bare throat. The crowd roared its approval. Sejanus’s hand dropped. He shrugged and got to his feet, arms extended to receive the salute, not only of the victor, but the approval of the mob. Agrippina sat and shook her head.

‘Fool!’ she whispered to me. ‘But most men are fools, aren’t they, Parmenon? They think with their balls and lack all patience.’

She turned away, joining the plaudits for Sejanus. I looked down at her feet. The scroll she’d tossed there had disappeared.

After the Games I followed her back to the Domus Livia on the Palatine. The house had once belonged to Augustus’s wife but she’d now died and been turned into a God. Well, not exactly, as her son Tiberius was reluctant to grant her the honour, but the people considered her as such. They regarded Livia as the model of chastity. I suppose they were right, for every other woman in her family had taken lovers with the same greed and gusto as a starving man snatches bread. The Domus was supposed to be a palace, but Tiberius, or rather Sejanus, had let it fall into disrepair. Steps were chipped, the paintwork was flakey, the baths were dusty and dirty, the water system cracked and there was a general shortage of money shown by the empty oil lamps, faded cushions, stained couches, and tables and chairs which rocked when you touched them.

Agrippina had a chamber on the first floor overlooking a dusty courtyard. I was invited there as soon as she returned. She lay on a couch beneath the window, leaning against the headrest, staring up at the ceiling, her sandals and shawl tossed on the floor. She tapped the side of the couch.

‘Come here, Parmenon.’

I stared. Yesterday I had been wandering the narrow lanes of Rome, and now a member of the imperial family was asking me to sit on the edge of her couch.

‘Come on!’ she urged. ‘Sit here! I won’t bite you.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘Yet!’

I took a step forward.

‘No, first open the door, quickly! See if anyone’s in the corridor outside.’

I obeyed but the gallery was empty. Dust motes danced in the pale afternoon sun which streamed through one of the high windows. I closed the door.