‘How dangerous is it?’ I asked. ‘Has the Augusta anything to fear from you?’
Burrus grabbed my wrist and squeezed it tightly. ‘Remember this, Parmenon,’ he whispered back, his dark brown eyes unblinking. ‘No soldier of mine will lift a sword against the daughter of Germanicus.’
‘But others might!’
‘I can only answer for Burrus,’ the Praetorian Prefect replied, ‘not the rest of the world.’ He released my wrist and walked quickly to join the rest.
We reached the tree-line and entered the broad avenue which cut through to the imperial villa. It was the first time I had been there since Nero had spent a lavish fortune turning it into a palace of the Gods. There were marble columns, glittering pavilions, gleaming white stone statues, gardens filled with every possible variety of shrub and tree. Torches and lamps were carefully placed to fend off the darkness. Everywhere, because of the feast, stood statues of Minerva in copper and bronze, garlanded with leaves and fresh flowers.
Agrippina and her household were given their own pavilion in the imperial grounds. If show was anything to go by, Nero did regard her as the ‘best of mothers’. No expense had been spared, no honour ignored. Even Agrippina was impressed by the sumptuous luxury of her reception and the quarters provided. The walls and floors of the pavilion were adorned with mosaics or lined with rare marble and mother-of-pearl. Exquisite diamonds, specially imported from the mountains of Asia Minor, had been lavishly used to decorate her private apartment. Agrippina’s bed was of scented wood, inlaid with gold and covered with the richest oriental tapestries, embroidered with pearls from Palestine in Arabesque designs. The walls of this luxurious bedchamber were lined with panelling, containing revolving tablets of ivory. These were set on pivots and could be turned to display different pictures. In the ceiling, a hidden machine could, at a touch, spray perfumes, whilst through the room ran a special conduit full of fragrant water. Agrippina was ecstatic. She really believed such opulence was an eloquent testimony to Nero’s love for her. The Emperor himself escorted her into the pavilion and showed her its glory before making his farewell, adding that we would all meet at a specially prepared banquet that evening.
‘You see!’ Agrippina exclaimed, once the imperial party had left. ‘Don’t you see, Parmenon, this is a fresh beginning.’
‘We are to return to Rome?’
‘We are to return to Rome.’ She smiled and, clapping her hands, shouted to the servants and slaves to make her quarters ready.
I supervised the baggage being brought in. I had a quiet word with Acerronia and Creperius. Everything was to be checked — the wine, the perfume, the sheets, the coverlets — for any trace of poison. I went outside. Dusk had fallen but the garden lights shed a golden glow, and I glimpsed armour: Burrus had apparently ringed Domina’s pavilion with a suitable guard. I trusted the Prefect but what of Nero?
Agrippina spent the rest of the day preparing herself. She bathed in the marble tub, Acerronia rubbing precious cream and perfume into her skin. She piled her hair up, holding it in place with jewelled pins and small ivory combs. She dressed in a white stola fringed with purple and gold, a lapis lazuli gorget round her throat, gold bangles on her wrists and ankles. She looked beautiful and spun on her heel, hands extended.
‘Look, Parmenon!’ she cried. ‘How can any son resist a mother like this?’
I could have wept at the sheer pathos. Agrippina looked as brilliant as some rare jewel. Yet here was the great Domina, Agrippina, daughter of Germanicus, mother of the Emperor of Rome, having to act like a courtesan to obtain what was naturally hers, Nero’s affections.
The Emperor, of course, played his part well and responded in kind. We dined in a special pavilion of silken cloth, the air sweet with roses and honey-suckle. The tables were arranged in a horse-shoe fashion with couches, covered in gold and silver cloth, ranged along the side. Torches, candelabra and scented oil lamps lit the darkness and, as Nero proclaimed, created an artificial day in Agrippina’s honour. He escorted her to the place of glory. I was left at the foot of the table. I was glad to be there, so that I had a good view of the rest. If Agrippina had decided to gather all her enemies together in one place, she couldn’t have done better. Seneca, Tigellinus, Burrus, Anicetus and, of course, smooth-skinned Otho smirking behind his hand. Only the golden Poppea was absent.
Musicians in the background provided music. Jugs of wine were circulated once again, and toasts were made. I saw Nero wink down the table at Anicetus and my blood ran cold. This feast may begin with laughter but it would end in tears, even death. I tried to appear distracted, as if more concerned with the nearby aviaries carved in the fashion of a temple, full of rare singing-birds, or the marble basins full of live fish which the guests could pick out for cooking. Servants and slaves of both sexes, the most beautiful Rome could supply, solicitously tended to every want. I tried to catch Agrippina’s eye but it was futile. She was only interested in Nero. As far as she was concerned, everything else was like the air we breathe, hardly to be noticed.
At last the banquet itself began. Fish, poultry and game were brought in, followed by a roast pig stuffed with live quails which flew away when the chef slit its belly. A troop of cooks entered, preceded by a line of musicians playing flutes. The chef carried a whole boar on a huge silver salver. When this too was cut, it was seen to be stuffed with pheasants, inside which were quails, which in turn were filled with ortolans. After each course the attendants returned, allowing us to wash our hands and face in perfumed water.
We then solemnly processed to a second pavilion where the tables were even more sumptuously laid out. From the poles hung golden lamps in which burned scented oils. We were crowned with roses and, behind each guest, a slave wafted perfumed feather fans. Sherberts were served, mixed with snow and tinged with the lightest of white wines. Dancers from Antioch entered and performed a sensuous ballet to the lilting tunes of zithers and flutes. The evening became more raucous. Guests got to their feet, staggered outside to be sick and returned to gorge themselves even more. Others helped themselves to the dancers or slave girls. In the corner of the pavilion Otho made noisy love to one of the slave girls whilst another looked on and encouraged the coupling pair. Creperius and Acerronia sat opposite me, both of them deep in their cups. I wondered if their wine had been laced with some potion or powder. I ate and drank nothing. All I was aware of were flushed, sweaty faces, glittering eyes, raucous music and the shouts and cries of the revellers. Like all the guests, I had been searched to ensure I carried no arms but I’d managed to seize a carving knife and place it under my couch. All the time I watched Nero and his mother. Sometimes they kissed, rubbed noses, held each other’s hands. On one occasion Nero shared her couch and laid his head on her breast. I could tell he was playing a part for the onlookers. Now and again Nero would flash a sly smirk at one of his cronies. They, in turn, tried to draw me into conversation, wishing to share a joke or tidbits of gossip from Rome.