Paul Doherty - Domina

Of course, the expected blood-letting followed. The German guards and their Thracian officers went on a senseless rampage. They took the heads of some of the conspirators and placed them as victory trophies on the altar of Augustus. They, in turn, were cut down by the Praetorians who hurried in from the camp. Chaerea escaped, though he spent time desecrating Caligula’s corpse, ripping his dagger through Caligula’s genitals.

Caligula’s friend, the Jewish king Herod Agrippa, intervened as the bloody fray drifted away from the Emperor’s corpse. Herod took the corpse to the Lamia Gardens on the Esquiline where he tried to arrange a funeral pyre. The confusion was so great that he gave up and interred the half-burnt corpse in a shallow grave. No one was able to protect Caligula’s wife, who threw herself on the outstretched sword of one of the tribunes, who had come for her. They then took her child Priscilla by the heel and dashed her brains against the wall.

Meanwhile the Senate, that group of old hypocrites, clustered like a gaggle of frightened geese, not in the Senate house but in the temple of Jupiter, to which they had also brought the city treasure. Protected by guards, they started the usual debate about restoring the Republic. It was a vain hope: both the army and the mob had far more to gain from supporting whoever was to be the next Emperor.

I had bribed certain guards to look after the young Nero and now went searching for Claudius, who, in the general chaos everyone had ignored. Looting had broken out in the palace, where slaves, soldiers and servants were helping themselves. I searched the library but found it empty. I then recalled where his mother’s chamber had been and discovered Claudius hiding behind a curtain.

‘Everything is going to plan,’ I assured him. ‘Agrippina’s son is safe but you have to assert yourself.’

Claudius was almost wetting himself with fright. It took two cups of wine before he stopped shaking. I grabbed him by the hand and bundled him down the steps.

A group of Praetorian officers were waiting, and greeted the old man as if he was a God incarnate. Claudius was immediately put into a litter and, protected by soldiers, taken down to the Praetorian camp outside the city gates. Once he was there, Claudius started to regain his nerve. In a clash of gleaming swords, their cloaks billowing out, the Praetorian Guard hailed Claudius as Emperor and Caesar. He stood shaking on the purple-draped rostrum but accepted their salutes and oaths of fealty. Slowly but surely the word spread. Clerks, secretaries, civil servants, and even a few senators joined Claudius. The Senate tried to negotiate, whilst Claudius prevaricated, dodging and swerving like an old fox. He pointed out that the army had already hailed him as Emperor. He had promised them a donative and he hoped the Senate would see sense and recognise him. They had no choice: Rome accepted him as Emperor. Two weeks later Claudius invited my mistress back to Rome. He treated her honourably, restored her possessions and, after executing those who had murdered Caligula, studiously ignored any reference to her or me.

Agrippina was delighted to see her son again. She was now twenty-five years of age. The different crises had created furrows in her olive-skinned face and silvery lines in the night-black hair but her eyes were still bright and vivacious. When she saw Nero, however, the years fell away. She picked him up and danced. For days afterwards, she wouldn’t let him out of her sight. She studied every inch of his little body and questioned him closely about what he liked, his favourite toys. At first he was shy and coy with her, but eventually they became inseparable. Domitia Lepida who looked after him during her exile was totally ignored. Agrippina would have liked to have torn her eyes out but Lepida was the mother of Messalina, that copper-haired, round-faced beauty who had the good fortune to be married to Claudius the Emperor.

Agrippina very rarely mentioned Messalina’s name, yet, I could tell, they were the deadliest enemies from the start. One day, shortly after her return, Agrippina asked me to comb her hair. She sat on a small stool in front of a silver sheen mirror. Young Nero sat at her feet, thumb in mouth, watching her with wide eyes.

‘I have learnt my lesson, Parmenon,’ Agrippina declared, studying her reflection closely.

‘In what way, Domina?’

‘To survive.’ She leaned down and rustled Nero’s hair. ‘And to wait.’

‘For what, Domina?’

‘Is the door closed?’ she asked.

‘You know it is, Mistress. You’ve chosen this room carefully, just like the one where we first met.’

‘I’ll tell you what I’ve planned,’ she murmured, so matter of fact you’d think she was choosing an ointment or a pot of paint for her face. ‘One day Nero will become Emperor, won’t you, my little child?’ She smiled beatifically at her son as he sat at her feet. ‘And I shall become Empress.’

I dropped the brush.

‘And you, Parmenon,’ she continued, ‘must not be so clumsy.’

‘And how will you achieve all this?’ I asked. ‘Ask Claudius to divorce Messalina and marry you?’

Agrippina pulled a face.

‘Messalina has already given birth to one child, a girl Octavia.’ I continued warningly.

‘So?’ She shrugged one shoulder. ‘I doubt if she is Claudius’s child.’ She bit her lip. ‘I mustn’t say that again.’

I gave her hair one hard brush and stood back. She caught my gaze in the mirror.

‘What is it, Parmenon?’ she whispered.

‘Haven’t you heard the news, Domina?’

She spun round on the stool. When she lost her temper, Agrippina’s face changed; it seemed to grow longer, harder, her high cheekbones more pronounced, the sensuous lips a mere pink, thin line. She could read my thoughts.

‘What is it, Parmenon?’ she demanded again.

‘Mama, Mama, what’s the matter?’ Nero jumped up and clutched at her leg.

Agrippina put an arm round his shoulder.

‘Hush, little one,’ she soothed. ‘I’ll take you into the garden. I’ve bought some new fish. Parmenon has something to tell me, haven’t you?’

My throat had gone dry. I had never seen Agrippina look so furious.

‘Rumours, Domina, mere gossip. That’s what you pay me to collect, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t pay you anything,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘You are mine, Parmenon, body and soul. I can see it in your eyes: Messalina is expecting another child, isn’t she?’

I agreed. ‘Her women are talking about her courses having stopped for two months in succession. They will take oaths that Claudius is the father. Messalina has already consulted the midwives and the auguries. She has been promised a fine boy.’

Agrippina didn’t move.

‘Did you hear me, Domina?’

She hugged Nero closer. ‘Get out!’ she ordered.

She had bitten the corner of her lips so savagely that a trickle of blood ran down her chin. ‘Get out and leave me alone!’

For the next few days I never saw Agrippina. She remained closeted in her apartment, sending to the kitchen for food for both herself and her son. Other people came and went: the legion of spies she had in the city; merchants; traders; tinkers; the occasional soldier from the Praetorian Guard. I knew it was best to leave her alone. I was also aware of visitors arriving late at night, of horsemen, soldiers in the garden below, pinpricks of light in the darkness, the rumbling wheels of a cart.

Eventually the crisis passed. Agrippina invited me back to her chamber, where she was sitting on the same stool. Her long, black hair was thrust behind her but her face bore no paint. She looked older, more severe.

‘I want you to brush my hair, Parmenon,’ she declared, ‘for the last time.’