Paul Doherty - Domina

‘They are coming for me, aren’t they?’ Domina whispered.

I half rose from the couch. Agrippina’s face had a stricken look. Her gaze had shifted to a shadowy corner as if she could see things we couldn’t.

‘Who’s coming, Domina?’ I murmured.

‘They are all there,’ she replied. ‘Dark-blue rings round their eyes, mouths gaping. .’

‘Domina!’ I said harshly.

She broke from the reverie. ‘So what, Creperius, is our little milkmaid saying to my son?’

‘Domina, this is only gossip.’

‘What is she saying?’ Agrippina’s voice rose to a shout.

‘Poppea demands if Nero is really Emperor of Rome. “The true ruler is your mother,” she rants. “All the important decisions are still hers”.’ And then Creperius repeated Poppea’s most bitter jibe, ‘“They call you Empress Nero and your mother Agrippina Emperor of Rome”.’

I looked at my mistress. She sipped at the Falernian, rolling it round her tongue as she did when she was deeply engrossed. This was a fight to the death: Poppea was a deadly adversary.

‘Poppea,’ Creperius continued, ‘is supposed to have given your son a gift wrapped in silk. When Nero undid the bundle all it contained was a golden coin displaying your head. “Why is this?” Poppea hissed.’

‘And?’ Agrippina broke in.

‘To give your son his due, Nero was confused. “I am an artist”, he replied. “That’s all I care about”. Poppea knelt at his feet. “And your mother?” the little hussy persisted, “saves you the trouble of being Emperor. She is always reminding the people, not that she’s Nero’s mother, but Germanicus’s daughter: that’s more important than your poetry.’

‘Who told you this?’ I asked, fearful of the effect this conversation might have on Agrippina’s raw nerves.

‘It’s chatter,’ Creperius replied defensively, ‘but the proof of the dish is in the eating. If I am wrong, why doesn’t Nero come here? Why doesn’t he invite Domina back to Rome?’

Agrippina slammed her goblet back on the table.

‘Parmenon.’ She pulled herself up from the couch and stared across at me. ‘How do you think it will come?’

‘What?’ I asked innocently.

‘My death.’

The supper room fell quiet. Even the sea seemed to hear her words, the roar of its waves now hushed.

‘He won’t go that far,’ Acerronia intervened. ‘He would be accused of matricide! To kill the daughter of Germanicus!’

‘No, he wouldn’t do it,’ I replied, ‘but others might do it for him.’

‘How?’ Agrippina’s voice grew strident. ‘Advise me, Parmenon, how?’

‘Not by poison: they’d have to get too close, and they know that you take every known antidote. Besides, the finger of suspicion would be pointed firmly at him.’

‘The dagger?’ Agrippina asked.

‘Too blunt and bloody,’ I retorted. ‘Again the trail will lead back to him. No, Domina, I think we’ve had our warning. An accident. Something which can be explained away like a collapsing roof.’

Agrippina laughed abruptly.

Creperius spoke up. ‘Or perhaps the August Nero will allow his honourable mother to live in peaceful retirement?’

‘Nero will,’ Agrippina offered. ‘But Poppea won’t. My father always advised, “Know your enemy!” If I were Poppea, I would be plotting my rival’s death. She’s no different.’ Agrippina looked at me archly. ‘She’s the gladiator I have to kill.’

‘We could strike first,’ I continued. ‘Kill Poppea. Poison her asses milk. Put some filthy potion into the powder with which she adorns her face and hands.’

Agrippina shook her head.

‘No, she’ll be waiting. The others would seize the opportunity to accuse me.’ She beat on the table top with her fingernails. ‘What will happen?’

‘Exile?’ Acerronia spoke up. ‘Perhaps the Emperor will exile you to some distant island or the wilds of Britannia?’

‘We could flee,’ I urged. ‘Go north to Germany, and seek the protection of one of the legates?’

Agrippina wasn’t listening.

‘Bring Salvara,’ she murmured. ‘Hurry!’ She snapped her fingers. ‘I want her now!’

Salvara was a witch, a local wise woman who lived in a hut amongst the pine-clad hills behind the villa. I left and sent servants to fetch her. I was surprised when they returned immediately with the old woman between them. She was a bony bundle, dressed in rags stinking of the unguents and potions she distilled. Youthful clear grey eyes full of mockery gazed out of Salvara’s lined face.

‘I was already on my way,’ she announced, her tone cultured and refined. I recalled rumours that, many years ago, she’d played the great lady in Pompeii.

‘How did you know?’ I asked.

‘I’d like to say I’d divined it but the news is all over the countryside that the Augusta has received a messenger from Rome, and a festive banquet has been held.’ She cocked her head slightly. ‘Yet I can hear no music or singing.’

‘It’s not that type of banquet,’ I replied. ‘The Augusta waits.’

I took her down the colonnaded portico. Agrippina had been drinking more quickly, her face was slightly flushed, her eyes enlarged and glittering. Salvara bowed and squatted before the table.

‘I knew you would need me.’

She undid her small leather sack, laid out the bones on the floor and, opening a small stoppered phial, sprinkled these with blood. Without asking permission, she took Agrippina’s goblet and sipped from it before mixing the wine with the blood. Salvara stirred the bones, praying quietly to herself. I have never believed in the black arts, although I have seen many tricks that would take your breath away. Some of the best mountebanks in the empire have performed their games before me. Agrippina was as sceptical as I, but Salvara, like Joah the Jew, was different: there were none of the tricks, the theatrical gestures and the high drama of the professional charlatans. Only an old woman crouched before Domina, staring down at the bones, crooning softly to herself. The song was like a lullaby a mother sings to a fretful child. My eyes grew heavy. I shook myself and looked around. Creperius and Acerronia lolled on their couches as if they’d drunk deeply. Agrippina only had eyes for the witch. The chamber grew very warm, and a wind blew in, dry and sharp like that from the desert.

‘What do you see, Mother?’ Domina asked. ‘Has the veil lifted?’

‘What do you want me to see?’ came the sly reply.

‘My fate.’

‘Death!’ came the answer.

‘We are all to die, Salvara, but how, why, when?’

‘When, I cannot say.’

Some of the oil lamps guttered out. The darkness around Salvara grew more intense.

‘Will I be reconciled to my son?’

‘Before you die you shall be reconciled,’ came the tired, slow reply.

Salvara had her eyes closed, rocking herself backwards and forwards, her fingers pressed to the floor.

‘And whom should I fear?’

‘The master of the sea.’

‘The master of the sea? Will I drown?’

‘You shall not drown, Domina, but be wary of the master of the sea!’

‘Neptune?’ I called out.

Salvara wasn’t listening. ‘You shall be reconciled, Domina, and receive your son’s sweet embrace and loving kiss. But, remember my words, be careful of the master of the sea!’

The old woman’s head drooped. The warmth dissipated. Agrippina, her eyes brimming with tears of joy, toasted me silently with her cup.

Agrippina was a changed woman. Salvara had said that she would be reconciled with Nero, so she thought it was only a matter of waiting. Once again the villa became a place of light, and musicians and dancers were hired. Agrippina spent more time out in the garden, tending flower beds, gossiping with Acerronia. It was all sun, no shadow. I tried to advise her to act prudently. She may have heard, but she certainly didn’t listen. She spent more time on her appearance, hiring hairdressers, buying perfumes and pastes. She even went out to apologise to the chickens and made us all laugh with the little mime she concocted. I hadn’t the heart to remind her that she was still in the arena and the game had yet to begin. Would Poppea give up? I knew Nero for what he was: a spoilt, depraved actor who could play any part the mood suited him. I was troubled by the phrase ‘master of the sea’. What had Salvara meant by that?