Well, by the time I reached that bedchamber, the roof had gone, and Callienus with it. The roof had collapsed, crushing the bed and the Greek under a mass of fallen timbers and rubble. Agrippina and Acerronia joined me. The noise had roused the rest of the villa, and lamps and torches were brought. Some of the slaves became hysterical, but Agrippina remained calm. She wrapped a cloak about her and just stood in the doorway, staring at the masonry which had buried her lover.
The following morning I investigated the ‘accident’. It would appear that the builders on either side of the bedchamber had piled up masonry on the flat roofs. For some unknown reason this had slipped and fallen, bringing down the timber ceiling to crush Callienus to pulp. The Greek certainly lost all his looks and beauty. A piece of timber had smashed his head as easily as it would a nut. Another had crushed his legs. Agrippina ordered his mangled remains to be sheeted and the corpse was taken down to the beach. A makeshift funeral pyre was hastily assembled and drenched with oil. Agrippina herself took the torch and set it ablaze. She made the libation and muttered the prayer. The sea breeze caught the flames and soon reduced it all to ash. Afterwards Agrippina refused to leave. She dismissed the slaves but asked me to stay.
‘Was it an accident, Parmenon?’
‘No, Domina. Some of the workmen have disappeared. Oh, there was some rubble left on the roof but not enough to cause such damage. I checked the ceiling joists.’
‘And?’
‘The beams had been weakened and the clasps broken. I would guess five or six men climbed on the roof during the night, probably carrying sheetloads of rubble, though it was the beams which killed poor Callienus.’
‘The rubble was tossed on?’
‘Yes, Domina. The beams simply fell in. With a drop of over three yards, Callienus didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Who ordered this?’
‘You know who,’ I whispered. ‘Domina, you are in the arena, but your opponents have struck first. The scene was well prepared: the portent of the owl in the afternoon, followed by an unfortunate accident. The assassins glimpsed Callienus’s lamp, and no doubt thought that you and he had retired for the night. .’
Agrippina held her hand up. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’
She walked down to the funeral pyre. I thought she was going to say a few more words, but she went round it and stood at the edge of the sea, allowing the water to lap about her sandalled feet. Above her the sea birds called. I followed but stood behind, and watched her shoulders shake; one of the few times in her life that I saw Domina Agrippina, daughter of Germanicus, truly weep.
‘Don’t you hear them, Parmenon?’
‘Domina, it’s only the sea birds.’
‘No, Parmenon.’ She turned, wiping the tears from her cheeks. ‘The ghosts are calling my name!’
Chapter 2
‘The leader of the enterprise is a woman’
We waited like the gladiators in the arena. Nero’s spies surrounded the villa, whilst I wouldn’t trust most of the household servants and slaves as far as I could spit. As day followed day, ominous auguries and signs manifested themselves. Agrippina’s nerves drew taut. She snapped more often and I would frequently find her on the promontory overlooking the sea, brooding deeply as if Neptune could tell her the future. It was growing difficult to tell friend from foe in the dappled half-light of imperial politics. One morning a servant ran in screaming that the chickens wouldn’t eat, an awesome portent. Agrippina sprang to her feet, her face contorted with fury. She ran out to the yard, picked up two of the offending chickens and threw them down the well.
‘If they won’t eat,’ she screamed, ‘then let the bastards drink!’
Nero’s spies amongst the servants were delighted at this outburst. More strange stories circulated: a strange black dog was seen bounding across the villa gardens; a snake fell from a roof beam; a cock crowed in the dead of night.
I tried to divert Agrippina. One evening I hired one of those wandering physicians, more comical than a clown. This character claimed to be a Greek who followed the teachings of Cato. I brought him into the triclinium, where Agrippina and Acerronia were nibbling at roast meat and copiously drinking wine.
‘Tell the Domina,’ I said to the Greek, ‘about your theory.’
Well, I tell you this, the charlatan was better than a tonic. He called himself Aeshcypolus, claimed to have studied in Athens where be became a devout disciple of that old kill-joy Cato. I knew what was coming next. The rogue theatrically gestured at the platters and plates strewn across the tables.
‘Don’t eat that rubbish,’ he pronounced. ‘Drink juniper-wood wine and keep a pomegranate close by to combat colic and worms.’
Agrippina’s face was a treat. She gaped open mouthed.
‘Cabbage!’ the man trumpeted. ‘Eat cabbage, Domina! It eases the bowels and facilitates urination. Carefully washed and crushed, cabbage will cure ulcers and open sores and dispel tumours. Fried in hot fat, and taken on an empty stomach, cabbage will cure insomnia. Cabbage juice will also cure deafness and, if the same is rubbed on your private parts, heightens sexual pleasure. .’
Agrippina threw her head back and bellowed with laughter. It was marvellous to see and hear: a truly merry laugh which began in the stomach, echoed through her chest and throat and brought life back to the eyes and face. Acerronia joined in. It became so infectious that I sat down on the edge of a couch, my shoulders shaking. I threw a purse at Aeschypolus and told the silly bugger he could sleep in one of the stables.
‘See, I told you,’ the fellow lugubriously added as I steered him towards the door. ‘Even the mention of a cabbage will dispel the humours and lift depression.’
Well, that was too much for Agrippina. She was laughing so much she slipped onto the floor. I got rid of Aeshcypolus and returned to the triclinium. Agrippina’s face was a joy to see. The tears rolled down her cheeks in long black lines of kohl. She got up and washed her face in lotus water, wiping herself carefully. She tried to thank me, took one look at my face and burst out laughing again. A good hour passed before she composed herself. Our wandering physician had released the tension which was tearing her soul apart. At last she composed herself, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin.
‘So much for auguries and portents!’
She caught her breath, her face serious. I asked if I should bring the cabbage doctor back.
‘No, no.’ Agrippina lifted her hand. ‘I’ve had enough, Parmenon. The laughter has helped. I thank you.’
She asked Acerronia to fill three wine goblets with Falernian mixed with yolk of pigeon’s egg to clear any impurities. She lifted the jewelled goblet and toasted me with her eyes. She sipped, staring at the floor. The oil lamps began to gutter and go out. I started to call a slave but Agrippina tapped her hand against the cedar table.
‘I like the darkness,’ she whispered. She lifted her head and stared at me. ‘“Anything born of myself and Agrippina”,’ she declared, ‘“can only be odious and a public disaster”.’
‘That’s not true,’ I replied quickly. ‘It was vicious of your husband to say such a thing.’
‘My first husband,’ Agrippina pouted back. ‘Domitius Ahenobarbus. He was born drunk, and he died a drunk. What an ignoble end for a noble family. Anyway, that’s what he said when Nero was born.’
‘Perhaps he’d heard about the portents?’ Acerronia declared.
‘It was a difficult enough birth.’ Agrippina rolled the wine cup between her hands. ‘It was a breech delivery. The baby took days to come, and was eventually born on the eve of Saturnalia, feet first. The midwives had a field day clacking and tutting.’ She sighed. ‘An Egyptian soothsayer told me that Nero would become Emperor and kill his mother.’ She smiled through the tears in her eyes. ‘Do you know what I replied, Parmenon? Let him kill me as long as he rules!’ She laughed quietly. ‘Yes, it’s true, my son does come of rotten stock. Ahenobarbus means Bronze Beard: it suits Nero. What do the wits say? “Beard of bronze, face of iron, heart of lead”.’ She sipped from the wine.