Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) Read Free

aren’t you? Can’t you see, Parmenon, in the arena, there can only be one victor.’
    ‘I’ve heard the prophecy,’ I remarked.
    ‘Prophecy?’ she mimicked. ‘You mean, the one from that old charlatan Thrasyllus. He wasn’t making a prophecy. He just knew the rules of the game. Shall I tell you how I could survive?’ Her eyes had that hard, venomous look. ‘Do you want me to spell it out, Parmenon? If I want to survive,’ she continued, ‘there’s only one way.’
    ‘Kill Poppea?’
    ‘No, Parmenon, kill my son!’
    A bee buzzed hungrily from flower to flower. The moment had gone. Its peace shattered. Already I could hear the shouts of the workmen as they returned from their midday rest to continue work on the villa. They were re-roofing and patching up the walls where cracks had occurred. Until recently Agrippina had supervised their work but the looming crisis had diminished her interest.
    I reflected on what had happened so far. Nero and Poppea were busy in Rome with little communication between Agrippina and her son. Domina had sheltered at Antium and waited for news. Eventually the silence was broken: Nero was coming south. He intended to stay at one of his villas at Misenum or Baiae. His cronies were coming with him: Otho, Anicetus and, of course, the lovely Poppea. Would there be a reconciliation between mother and son? Agrippina and her old friend Acerronia had discussed the matter excitedly: perhaps the old times were returning and Nero was missing his mother. Perhaps Poppea’s influence was on the wane! The clouds were lifting. I’d been present at such meetings, lying on my couch in the triclinium, with Acerronia chattering away and the actor Callienus sulking if Agrippina did not lavish her smiles on him.
    To be truthful I had been hopeful too. Antium was pleasant enough but it wasn’t Rome, and I missed the turbulent crowded streets, the smells of the cookshops, gossiping with the gladiators or strolling through the forum listening to the chatter. Nero had been very busy with building work on the Palatine, a new chariot course with unique mechanical devices. I’d have liked to have seen them. However, things weren’t changing for the better. Agrippina, in her clear but elliptical way, was able to see the brutal reality of the situation. We might all kiss each other, clasp hands, swear eternal oaths of friendship but it was a charade. Agrippina was in the arena of the amphitheatre, the corpses of her past enemies strewn about, and her new opponent Poppea striding towards her. And what of Nero? Her only son, born feet first, the cause of so much physical and spiritual pain? That golden boy with his red-gold, curly hair, moustache and beard cut in the Greek fashion, those popping blue eyes in that chubby, child-like face.
    ‘Would you?’ I asked. ‘Could you kill him?’
    Agrippina snapped her fingers. ‘Like that, Parmenon.’ She plucked up a grape and squeezed it between her fingers. ‘You forget the ancient laws of Rome. A parent has rights over his or her child’s life.’
    ‘But could you?’ I insisted.
    Agrippina’s eyes grew misty. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘No, I could not, not him.’
    ‘But you are in the amphitheatre,’ I insisted. ‘Your enemies are helmeted and masked. They carry swords and shields. Blood, sometimes, is not thicker than water.’
    ‘You’re wrong!’ she replied hoarsely. ‘Many years ago I was friendly with Volusus, a Thracian gladiator, one of the best. He fought like a dancer, shifting this way and that, flitting like a shadow around his opponents. One day I went to see him fight. There were four pairs to start with; eventually only one remained. The crowd tensed with anticipation. The combat had lasted for hours and it was now late afternoon. You could taste the blood in the air. People were so excited that a number collapsed from sunstroke, refusing to leave their seats and seek shelter. Volusus had fought like one possessed. You know the way of