‘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.