‘Soothsayers are two a penny,’ I declared.
‘And don’t I know it!’ Agrippina retorted. ‘You can make signs and omens out of anything. You’ve heard the story, haven’t you? How when Nero was a boy that bitch Messalina sent assassins to smother him.’
‘Yes, yes, I’ve heard that,’ I scoffed. ‘A snake supposedly appeared and frightened them off. They thought it had been sent by the God Apollo.’
Agrippina chuckled deep in her throat.
‘Was it true?’ I insisted though I knew the answer. I’d only heard about this incident, whereas I was actually present the night Messalina truly did try to kill both Nero and his mother.
‘Yes and no.’ Agrippina laughed. ‘The assassins Messalina sent were cowards. They crept into my son’s room and saw the snake.’ She fluffed one of the cushions. ‘It was as harmless as a flea: one of those Egyptian house snakes you train to kill rats and mice.’ She saw the expression on my face and burst out laughing. ‘The rest of the rumour was due to me and those cowardly assassins weren’t going to contradict my story. So instead of one snake, there were half a dozen, long, curling, hissing pythons sent by the Lord Apollo.’ She made a rude sound with her lips and played with one of her pearl earrings. ‘Do you believe in the Gods, Parmenon? Come on,’ she urged. ‘Do you really believe in them or are you a secret follower of the Christus and his gaggle of mad-cap Jews and slaves? The gang who believe that their crucified God came back to life three days later. Do you believe such nonsense?’
‘No, I don’t. I don’t believe in the Gods, or the Elysian Fields, in Hades or the Underworld. How can we believe in a religion which elevates a man like Claudius to be a god. He couldn’t even piss straight.’ She laughed and then lifted her head as if listening carefully.
‘Why is it so silent?’ Acerronia murmured.
‘Like the grave, eh? That’s what happens after death, Pamenon, just a black nothingness, extinction!’
‘Do you regret anything?’ Acerronia asked, then bit her lip as if ashamed of her question.
‘Regret?’ Agrippina blew her cheeks out. ‘I wish I could meet my father the great Germanicus. I wish he was here now. He’d teach my son a few lessons. Or even my mother. When my father took over the legions in Germany, the soldiers mutinied. They were terrified the Germans would annihilate my father and cross the Rhine. Mother went on the threatened bridge, holding me or one of her other brood in her arms, and shouted at the soldiers to do their worst. “Burn it!” my mother taunted. “Kill me! Slay Germanicus’s child!”.’ Agrippina sipped from the goblet. ‘The soldiers listened to her. I once asked Mother what she would have done if they had fired the bridge. “Oh,” she replied. “I’d have jumped.” There’s one thing about our family.’ Agrippina leaned across and plucked at a grape. ‘We are good swimmers.’
Swimming, cabbages, Agrippina’s story in that shadowy triclinium are still fresh memories. Domina finished her wine and went off to sleep in her new bedchamber. I stayed behind with Acerronia, thinking that perhaps she might agree to a kiss and a cuddle. She was truly drunk though and fell into a deep sleep, an untidy bundle on the couch, so I left her, and returned to my own chamber and stared out at the night.
Agrippina’s story about her mother symbolised all our fears. We were at a crossroads between life and death and wanted to know what our fate would be. I wondered how long the waiting would go on. However, the next morning, Agrippina’s principal spy in Rome, her boat-master Creperius, arrived. He was dirty, dishevelled, unshaven and stank like a tanner’s yard. He almost fell off his horse in the courtyard. Agrippina herself helped him into the baths, shouting at the servants to bring food and wine which she insisted they taste first. Creperius, soaking in soapy water up to his neck, sat and gaspingly sipped at the wine.
‘I thought you were dead!’ Agrippina protested.
She sat by the edge of the bath, feet in the dirty water, glaring down at this most faithful of agents.
‘Where’s Sicculus?’
Creperius opened his eyes. He was a horse-faced man with scrawny, red hair; submerged in the water, he looked even more like the nag he rode with his long, wrinkled face creased into a smile. He sipped again at the wine.
‘Sicculus is dead!’ Creperius stared round the room, peering through the billowing smoke.
‘There’s only myself and Agrippina present,’ I reassured him. ‘Whilst the door is locked and bolted from the inside.’
‘I had at least a dozen spies in my son’s household!’ Agrippina exclaimed.
‘Well, we’re all gone now,’ Creperius replied without opening his eyes. ‘Do you remember Roscius the actor? He won’t be treading the boards anymore; his bowels became ulcerated and corrupted his whole flesh, turning it to worms. He hired slaves to bathe him but all his clothing, hand basins, baths and food were infected with the flux of decay.’ Creperius splashed the water. ‘Roscius spent most of the day in a bath, but it was no use: the vermin continued to spill out of every orifice in his body.’
‘Poison?’ Agrippina asked.
‘Of course!’ Creperius laughed. ‘Probably administered by one of Poppea’s servants. Naturally, I became very careful about what I ate and drank.’
‘And Sicculus?’ I asked, recalling the small Sicilian with his mop of black hair and laughing face.
‘I searched Rome for him,’ Creperius retorted, ‘but there was no sight of him. Rumour says Nero’s agents caught him, cut off his eyelids and locked him in a chest bristling with spikes. The only reason I know that much is because a joke is circulating that Sicculus’s death was due more to insomnia than pain. After that, I decided to leave Rome. I have been hiding out for at least a week. When I thought the time was ripe, I used what silver I had, bought that horse and fled.’
‘So, it’s happening,’ Agrippina whispered.
‘Oh, yes it’s all happening. Publicly, Nero calls you “the best of Mothers”. Secretly he’s plotting furiously. You haven’t got a friend left in Rome: anyone you favour has either been bought or killed. If you returned to the city, you’d never leave it alive.’
‘And who is the moving spirit behind this?’ Agrippina asked. ‘It can’t be my son? Somebody has seized his heart and caught his ear.’
Creperius opened his eyes and smiled lazily. ‘Domina, I think you mean a different part of Nero’s anatomy. Poppea is now queen of the day as well as queen of the night. She is Augusta in everything but name.’
‘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.’