Paul Doherty - Domina

‘Last night,’ he whispered, ‘I dreamt I was steering a ship when the rudder was forced from my hand. Octavia’s ghost came over the side and tried to drag me into the water. Above her head was a swarm of huge winged ants! They picked me up and carried me to the Mausoleum of Augustus, where the doors were flung open and a voice boomed, “COME IN NERO, WE’VE BEEN WAITING!”.’ His fingers went to his lips. ‘What shall I do, Parmenon, what shall I do? If only Mother was here!’

The others gathered around him, his freedman Phaeon, his secretary Epaphroditus, Acte faithful as ever, and his new love, a young Greek called Sporus, the spitting image of the dead Poppea. According to rumour, a surgeon had turned Sporus into a woman.

They were of little help and could only advise flight, but Nero still dallied.

‘Must I really flee?’ he whined. ‘Must the master of the world escape like a thief in the night, his nose hidden in his mantle?’

That evening, 8 June, fresh letters arrived at the palace stating that yet more legions had renounced their allegiance to him. In a furious burst of temper, Nero broke his two favourite cups, the Homer goblets. A special poison was sent to him in a golden casket. I urged him to go to the Servilian Gardens to meet certain Praetorians although I knew what their response would be. They taunted him with being frighened of death and turned away.

We returned to the palace to find that the golden casket of poison had been stolen and that, apart from the faithful few, his household and guards had fled. Nero became hysterical. He ran on to the palace steps, screaming that he would throw himself into the Tiber but the only response was a mocking laugh from the darkness. At last he calmed down, and it was agreed we’d flee to Phaeon’s villa, about four miles to the north-east of the city. Nero, clad in a sorry tunic, with a dirty old cloak thrown over his face, joined us in the stables. We galloped through the night, under a dark sky clouded by a threatening thunderstorm. On one occasion we passed a group of Praetorians, and Nero let his cowl slip and someone glimpsed his face. Soon we were out in the countryside where low hills were honeycombed with quarries and carpeted with grass and gorse. We turned our horses loose and forced our way through briars and brambles towards Phaeon’s deserted villa. Phaeon tried to persuade him to shelter in a cave but Nero, gibbering with fright, refused. Eventually we reached the villa, where Nero sheltered in a cellar on a dirty wine-soaked pallet. Phaeon brought some crusts of bread, and the Emperor of Rome chewed on these, talking to himself, wondering what to do.

Morning came and the day dragged on. I sat by Nero, watching his fleshy face gibber with fright, the sweat mingling with tears. May the Gods be my witness, I had no compassion for him. He droned on that, since he was such a great artist, perhaps the people would forgive him and allow him to retire and spend his years composing poetry and singing. Such hopes were soon dashed. A messenger arrived from Rome, bringing news that sentence of death had been passed on Nero. He was to be stripped, his neck fastened to a wooden fork and be beaten to death. Nero immediately grabbed the daggers he had brought with him. He pricked his neck and chest but lacked the courage to thrust deep. He begged Sporus to show him first how to die. When that effeminate monster refused, Nero beat him till he fled in terror. Time and again Nero got up and prowled round the cellar muttering, ‘It is not seemly. Nero! Rouse yourself! Rouse yourself!’ He turned to us.

‘Bring water and wood!’ he begged. ‘Prepare for my burial.’

He still believed he was in a play, acting out a part. Matters were brought to a head by the sound of horsemen outside; shouts, the jingle of harness and the clash of armour. Nero crouched in a corner of the cellar, one of the daggers at his throat.

‘Help me!’ he croaked.

I crawled across; his hand was trembling.

‘Faithful Parmenon,’ he whispered. ‘Why have you stayed with me?’

‘Because your mother asked me to.’

His eyes widened, his mouth opened to scream for the others congregated in the doorway at the other end of the cellar. I grabbed his wrist and forced the dagger into his throat. The sharp pointed edge cut deep. As blood bubbled out from both wound and mouth, he leaned forward, coughing, his eyes popping hideously. I could hear the shouts of the approaching Praetorians. Nero tried to touch me, his body trembling.

‘What-’ he muttered.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘What a great artist perishes in me. .’

‘Aye, Nero, and what a great monster,’ I replied.

His eyes were already glazing over in death, as Phaeon and the others held back the soldiers. I slipped down a narrow passageway, which led out to an old wine cellar, its roof long gone. I climbed the walls and in the distance I could see the soldiers crowding round their horses. I hid for a while then fled. Behind me, the last of the great Julio-Claudian family had died like a rat in that dirty cellar.

I allowed others such as his secretary to take the honour and credit of having persuaded Nero to die and thus save Rome and its Senate from a humiliating trial. I stayed out of Rome for months, watching as the generals fought over the empire. Galba, Otho, Vitellius: all reigned for a short while before they joined Nero in death, leaving the empire to that cunning, old fox Vespasian and his two darling sons Titus and Domitian. The stage had been cleared. Tiberius, Claudius, Agrippina, Caligula, Nero, and all their hangers-on, were gone like leaves in autumn: dry and dead, nothing but whirling memories. I bought a small farm near Misenum, to be close to Domina’s grave. I erected a proper tablet, laid flowers. I also married a local girl, who was soft and kind, more interested in the seasons, the sky, the soil and the sea than the harsh lust for power. She became a follower of the Christos and tried to persuade me to take their rites. I refused. One night she cuddled close and spoke into my ear.

‘The blessings of Christos,’ she whispered, ‘will protect you against the demons of the underworld.’

For the first time in a long, long while I threw my head back and laughed uproariously. Demons! Fear of demons? Why should I be frightened of demons? I’ve lived with them all my life!