I glanced across to see that Xenephon looked worried and Locusta had put her head down. Agrippina, however, was laughing and clapping her hands. She was sharp enough to realise the story was already round Rome and it would be better to appear unconcerned. She clapped her hands and the crowd imitated her. Seneca rather than Narcissus seemed to be in charge, and I saw him make a cutting movement with his hand. The trumpets brayed and another pantomime, of monkeys dressed as Amazons, either riding or perched in chariots pulled by goats, entered the arena. Nero roared with laughter, put one arm round his mother’s shoulder and pointed out what he thought was particularly funny. Seneca sat slumped in his chair. Again I realised, what the crowds would be whispering once the games were over: Claudius had been regarded as an old goat, and the monkeys were supposed to be the coterie of women who surrounded him, which included Agrippina.
Once the monkeys and goats had left the arena, it was time for the real games to begin. The fight was to be between the retiarii, net men, and Thracians. The gladiators filed into the arena and saluted the Emperor. It was only when the fight began that the mob realised these were not ordinary gladiators, but women. At first the crowd took this with humour but when the women proved to be poor fighters, the joke turned sour, and the crowd pelted them with rotten fruit. The lanistae came into the arena to lash at the fighters and ensure a proper combat. The odds in such fights were heavily weighed in favour of the nets: another powerful reminder of Claudius who had hated this imbalance. By the late afternoon the games were finished, and the mob, fickle as ever, saluted Nero and his mother. It might be considered that Narcissus had achieved his revenge, but the day’s events were not yet finished.
Nero took his guest up to the Palatine Palace where the dining hall had been specially transformed. A broad, golden awning shaped in the form of a mushroom hung down from the ceiling, and mushrooms fashioned out of silver and peacock feathers decorated the wall. The same motif was found on the tables, where knives, spoons and tooth picks were all embellished with the same theme. The guests took their seats, and were served with honey wine. The allusions continued as the meal continued. First came roast kid, served with slices of pumpkin, Seneca’s nickname for Claudius, in his bitter satire, which was a punning reference to his gaseous stomach and unfortunate habit of breaking wind at table. Then came fruits from the island of Cos, the birthplace of the physician Xenephon, which were served by the four women who had accompanied Claudius to his last meal. Roast peacock was brought in by slaves disguised as silver skeletons and finally, of course, came dish after dish of mushrooms served in a wide variety of sauces.
‘Mushrooms are the food of the Gods!’ Nero exclaimed, raising his goblet to his mother.
She toasted him back, so immersed in her son’s glory and favour, that she failed to appreciate the barbed witticisms and pointed reminders of how her husband had been helped into the Hall of the Gods. The high point of all this punning farce was a huge concoction of red confectionery, shaped in the form of a man’s buttocks, penis and testicles. This was served on a great silver platter taken round the guests by four Nubians, before being placed in the centre of the table. The buttocks were smacked by a female slave and the chef had arranged the confectionery so that it squeaked as if emitting a fart. The guests, their bellies soaked in wine, roared their applause. They watched gleefully as another female slave began to stroke the penis until it split, spouting out thick, white cream all over her. She was then summoned by different guests who scooped it from her skin with spoons or even their tongues. After the meal, a troupe of actors presented a burlesque scene of an old man, nicknamed the Pumpkin, who was frightened of mushrooms and peacock feathers. Everyone laughed, including Agrippina. Seneca was lounging on his couch, next to his personal guests, an old banking friend called Serenus and a beautiful young woman with a dark, oval face, pouting red lips, and hair arranged in black ringlets. I caught my breath and stared again, ignoring the pantomime and shouts of laughter.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked a chamberlain.
‘Why, sir, that’s Acte, one of Rome’s most beautiful women. Serenus is a very lucky man.’
I studied the girl carefully. She was dressed in green and white, and jewellery of the same colours adorned her neck, ear lobes and wrists. Despite the wine, I felt coldly sober. It was as if I had gone back some twenty-five years in time. Acte was beautiful, and had a powerful presence but the more I stared and saw that Nero was doing the same, the more that young woman reminded me of Agrippina as she had been when I first met her.
Chapter 14
‘Who gains?’
‘Did you attend the games?’
Pallas looked anxious, his eyes red-rimmed and ringed with shadows. He’d invited me into the treasury, and we sat in a small chamber near the imperial counting house, with its door locked, bolted and guarded. I knew by the fact that Pallas had invited me down there, that he must be upset and very wary, since he normally tended to acknowledge my presence only with a smile or a nod, considering me little more than Agrippina’s minion.
‘And is it true what happened?’
He picked up a wine jug, its lid carved in the form of a beautiful mermaid, and filled my Agamemnon goblet.
‘Well, is it true?’ he insisted. ‘One insult after another?’
‘The whole day was given over to it: goats, pumpkins, peacock feathers, mushrooms.’
‘But the crowd didn’t understand the significance?’
‘They will eventually,’ I retorted.
Pallas sighed noisily. ‘Doesn’t Agrippina realise what is happening?’ he wailed. ‘Seneca, that clever bugger, might be mocking Claudius but he is also mocking her. He’s proclaiming to the world that Agrippina killed her husband. With sarcasm as his weapon,’ he continued, ‘he’s nibbling away at Agrippina’s position like a dog at a juicy bone. Soon he’ll reach the marrow.’ He paused. ‘And what is Locusta doing back in Rome?’
‘Agrippina didn’t mind,’ I replied. ‘I have made enquiries and it seems that Nero himself ordered her return to Rome.’
‘Oh, he would!’ Pallas laughed sourly. ‘And how can Agrippina object? “You can’t have that woman in Rome”,’ Pallas mimicked Agrippina, ‘“I used her to poison the Emperor”.’ He fished amongst the scrolls on the desk and held one up. ‘There’s more. Nero hardly knew his father, and certainly never regretted his loss, but now our Emperor is suddenly all tender and dewy-eyed over his father’s memory. He’s planning to ask the Senate to pay the drunken, dropsical, dead Domitius special honours. I wouldn’t be surprised if some town or city, even Rome itself, isn’t forced to raise a subscription to have a beautifully carved statue of Nero’s degenerate father gracing some podium or the portico of a temple.’ Pallas let the scroll fall back on the table. ‘Nero doesn’t give a dog’s breath about his father, but Agrippina is going to find out that he doesn’t give a fig about anything: that old humbug Seneca has encouraged our Emperor into a course of action which he knows will offend Agrippina.’
Pallas picked up a thin parchment knife. He used it as a gladiator would a sword.
‘It’s prick, prick, scratch, scratch.’
‘But it won’t work,’ I retorted. ‘Agrippina is convinced of Nero’s love, his undying adoration and loyalty, so if he mocks Claudius’s memory, honours his dead father and employs the service of a well-known poisoner, how does that affect her position?’