Paul Doherty - Domina

‘And my son?’ Agrippina was eager to change the topic of conversation.

‘He loses himself in the usual revels. Disguised as a slave, he puts himself at the head of a band of roisterers, and they roam the streets after nightfall.’

‘Tigellinus!’ Agrippina exclaimed.

‘Tigellinus is one of them. He’s Master of the Revels. They waylay passersby, rob and strip them and then hurl them into sewers. They haunt shops, inns, taverns, houses of ill-repute. No woman is safe. Do you remember Senator Julius Montanus?’ Creperius wiped the water from his face. ‘One night Nero, in disguise, attacked his wife. Montanus defended her and gave your son a good whipping. The Emperor just ran away. Montanus later realised who he had attacked and went to the palace to apologise. The silly idiot should have kept his mouth shut. All your son said was: “You struck Nero and still dare to live?” Montanus recognised the threat and committed suicide. Your son now wanders Rome with a troop of gladiators to defend him.’

‘Why?’ Agrippina asked. ‘Why such stupidity? Doesn’t Seneca have any control over him?’

Creperius’s face became tight. He pulled a towel from the edge of the bath and wiped his face.

‘Domina,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Nobody knows what’s coming. Nero is changing. He’s becoming uncontrollable and vermin like Tigellinus urge him on.’

‘Caligula!’ The word was out of Domina’s mouth before she could stop it.

‘Yes,’ Creperius agreed. ‘They are whispering that Caligula has returned.’

Agrippina’s fingers flew to her cheeks. She stared fearfully across the steam-filled room as if she could see Caligula, ‘Little Boots’, her mad, corrupt, obscene brother who believed he could make love to the moon.

‘Impossible!’ Agrippina shook her head and got to her feet. ‘That’s impossible! We’ll talk tonight, Creperius. I’ll hold a banquet in your honour!’ And she fled the room.

Agrippina soon recovered herself, summoning the cooks and servants, issuing orders for the banquet that same evening. We did not eat in the triclinium but in a marble enclave on the east side of the villa overlooking the sea. It was a beautiful, early spring evening, with the weather growing soft and balmy. Agrippina acted as if she was still Empress of Rome. The marble walls were brought to life by a myriad of oil lamps and candles. The floor was swept, washed and covered in golden sawdust. Tables and couches were draped in silk and gold, ivory tasselled cushions were scattered about small polished tables set aside for the wine.

‘Always keep the wine in full view covered by a cloth,’ Agrippina warned. ‘It keeps away both flies and poisoners.’

Only four of us were present. Domina, myself, Acerronia and Creperius. Agrippina’s chefs did us proud. Accompanied by every sort of wine, there were mantis prawns, African snails, mussels and shellfish cooked in Chian wine, Trojan pig, gutted, roasted and stuffed with meats and different kinds of fish; even a lamprey outstretched on a platter with shrimps swimming all about it. Agrippina looked magnificent in pearl earrings and necklace, dressed in a pure white stola fringed with purple and gold with matching sandals. She lay on the couch like a young woman pretending to be Venus, waiting to be carved in stone by one of Rome’s master sculptors. Wine was passed round, and toasts were made, while Creperius gave us the gossip of Rome. A young actor, Appius, whilst showing off, had thrown a pear in the air and caught it in his mouth only to choke to death; a madman, Macheon, had climbed onto the altar in the Temple of Jupiter, uttering wild prophecies before he killed himself and the puppy he carried; the traffic in Rome was worse than ever.

‘It would wake a sea calf,’ Creperius murmured. ‘Litters, wagons, there’s no order.’

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.