The
Gardener’s Son
Within his mother’s womb he floated,
having no comprehension of sight, sound or smell, aware only of a sudden
commotion outside. His entire universe
was measured in inches now. His
umbilical cord was his only mooring to his world. Frequently, in the midst of labor, he would rock to and fro like
a tiny boat bobbing in dark waters. In
spite of such commotion, however, he felt safe and secure. He was at peace with himself in the confines
of his tiny home, without conflict or the knowledge of fear or pain.
Buoyed in his feral thoughts, he was,
for the last time in his life, alone.
The matron, to whom he was moored, carried the blood of Caesar. She was, despite her past, a Julio-Claudian:
the daughter of Germanicus and the sister of the emperor of Rome. It would be worthwhile for her, if he were
not a bastard, to give birth to a son.
Aside from old uncle Claudius and Caligula, himself, he would have an
excellent claim on the throne. She was,
in spite of her adulteries and because of her mad brother’s elevation, a
princess now, and yet, as far as her unborn infant was concerned, she could
have been a tavern winch. If it was up
to him, he would while away eternity in the ambience of her womb. But something was happening this hour that
would forever change his life. Something was terribly wrong!
On the eighteenth day before the
Calends of January, 790 A.U.C.*, as dawn broke upon Antium’s shore,
there was commotion from within
his world, as well as without. The very
cavity in which he had lived for so long jiggled violently now, causing his
first flicker of dismay. In
anticipation of the dark days ahead, his face drew into its characteristic
pout. Already, before his eyes had
opened, he began sucking his tiny thumb.
His twig-sized legs stirred and squat body trembled as the commotion
worsened and something touched him from beyond. A familiar shrieking followed, but much louder and of longer
duration than before. Not only was he
being tossed about, but something was reaching right into his chamber, touching
the bottom of his foot and causing the frightful noise and movement from
without to worsen, until he thought his world would collapse.
Inexplicably now, at the height of the
storm, he felt a numbing sensation, which made him feel sleepy and momentarily
unconcerned. The movement ceased. The noise stopped. After a long pause, however, the terrible touching
continued. A voice, from a long dark
tunnel now reached his ears: “… It’s aimed the wrong way. I feel
its heel!”
A more terrible commotion and screaming followed in which he thought he would be torn from his mooring and set adrift in this dark sea. Very soon, however, the feeling of numbness increased. The movement and sound ceased, and a long period of silence settled over his home.
After this interval, something incomprehensible
began happening. For the first time in
his predawn life, he was, in spite of the recent numbness, feeling pain. He was also experiencing anger at being torn
from his nest. Something was clamped
securely onto his legs. He began
descending, quickly at this point, into the birth canal, his entire universe
collapsing around him as he moved.
Into the shadowy world of his dynasty,
he was drawn from darkness into light.
Toward its cold glow, as a fading candle, the phenomena would reverse
itself, his soul growing darker and darker after he emerged and grew into a
man. For only a brief moment now, he
remained unblemished, without sin, untouched by the outside world.
The second voice he would hear, a
sweet lilting noise, which grew louder and louder as he was pulled out, was
saying “there-there little fellow, it’s not so bad being born!”
Upside down now, after the first dark
journey of his life, with his bloodied head crowning her womb, the boy, who
would one day be called Nero, uttered his first cry.
******
Agrippina, who had been drugged
heavily to lessen her pain, lie there sleeping soundly after he was extracted
from her womb. The umbilical cord was
cut by Minerva, and the afterbirth was placed into a jar. A special offering would be made to Juno if
the mother and baby survived. To insure
the boy’s health, the afterbirth would then be ceremoniously burned in the
Temple of Hercules. A handsome sum
would be given to its priests for offering prayers throughout the year.
At this stage, as he looked around the
room, Nero was almost blind, his pale blue eyes discerning only light, shadows,
and the motion of bodies, which he attached to particular sounds. The incoming voices remained unintelligible
to him but no longer muffled. Each
voice displayed a characteristic pattern, which could be matched to a certain
speaker in the room. There were four shapes
moving about: the physician Flavius Magnus, his apprentice Felix, and Claudia
and Minerva (the two midwives assisting in the birth). Unless he could a focus upon a particular
voice, however, they remained, as their physical shapes, a mental blur, having
no more meaning to him than the commotion and gyrations felt before.
Having successively delivered
Agrippina’s child, Flavius Magnus, her family’s physician, hastily sewed up her
wound. Felix, at his coaxing, now
placed him in Minerva’s arms.
“No deformities.” she chimed, inspecting him carefully. “… No strange markings or evil signs… He has red hair, though, and a slight cast in one eye!”
As a preview of things to come, little
Nero’s voice now rose to a nerve-shattering squeal. As a consequence, the physician again signaled to his apprentice,
this time to place the infant on his mother’s breasts. Almost immediately, as his mother slept,
came his primal urge to nurse. A warm,
tasty fluid flowed miraculously into his mouth, causing him to fall gradually
asleep.
After a short nap, he perceived,
though could not comprehend, a long period in which he was cleaned, powdered,
and placed into a gown. Bloated with
milk as he was, he then uttered his first belch. Soon afterwards, he soiled his diaper. Hastily Minerva wiped his bottom, put him into a new diaper, and
placed him back onto his mother’s breasts.
While Nero was fed, Felix inspected
his mother’s womb. Claudia delicately
removed the bloody linen beneath, as Flavius, as gently, examined her pupils
and began checking her pulse.
For only a short period of time the
boy slept, roused by the delirious movements of his mother’s arms. When he had awakened again, he found himself
back in the same hostile, noisy, and constantly moving world. A great bellow escaped his lungs, as his
mother elbowed him in his face.
“My son,” she groaned suddenly “...
let me see my son!”
“Flavius,” Felix whispered into his
ear “barely an hour has passed and she’s
awake!”
“Minerva,” Flavius directed the
freedwoman “take him into your arms a moment until he stops crying. Make
him be quiet!”
“Oh look at him mistress,” the old
woman held him over her chest “isn’t he beautiful! You’ve given birth to a fine, strapping son!”
“No Minerva,” Agrippina shook her head
weakly. “I’m not nursing him; it’ll ruin my breasts! I just want to see him, and make sure he’s ours!”
Raising their eyebrows in surprise,
the two men exchanged dubious looks.
Concern also registered on the midwives faces when Agrippina refused to
nurse her child. To oblige the mistress
now, a slave was summoned to find Dora, who would act as a wet nurse, since her
own son had just been weaned. So she
could be sure he was Domitius’ son, Flavius’ told Minerva to hold the boy up to
the light. The boy’s crying only
worsened as he was positioned by the lamp.
Oblivious to his cries, however, Agrippina inspected him carefully as
she might a piece of merchandise, not yet satisfied with what she saw.
At that very moment, as Felix drew
back the curtain, dawn’s light broke through the window, flooding Agrippina’s
room. As the boy was dazzled by the
glow, he grew momentarily silent.
Entering phantom-like, as if on cue, was also a warm sea breeze,
startling the infant as it blew into his face.
The final shock for Nero came when the lamps were blown out by the
breeze. For several seconds, the sun’s
glow seemed to set the walls on fire. A
collective gasp could be heard, as the physician and his team tried
interpreting what they saw.
For Claudia, who was an Etruscan,
dawn’s rays were harmful for infants just born. For Minerva, however, an Egyptian freedwoman, it meant good luck,
especially since he was a boy. Felix,
whose father had been Druid priest, saw it as a mystery and nothing more, while
Flavius, more than anyone else in the room, was visibly disturbed. Even in his logical, Greek mind, it seemed
as if something supernatural had occurred.
But for him, the problem was not the child. It was Agrippina’s silence and the expression on her face. She appeared to be unsure about her
son. After what she said, none of them,
including Minerva, could help wondering if he was, in fact, Domitius’ child.
As the old woman held him up to the
light, Flavius shuddered, Claudia held her mouth, and Felix continued staring
dubiously at the boy. Many citizens in
Antium knew about Cnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus’ faithless wife. In Roman tradition, the physician recalled,
a bastard, even a royal bastard, could be disposed of after birth. Flavius knew he would be responsible for
this task.
The boy, they could plainly see, had
the reddened, wrinkled look of all infants.
The only handsome thing about him that his mother could find was his
father’s red hair. Otherwise, he had a
short neck, appeared bowlegged, and had a sniveling expression on his
face. The infant, who seemed to be
laughing at them but was in fact having a screaming fit, now filled the
midwives with dread. Next to the
breached birth, itself, and the ominous dawn, this was the most evil of signs. He shouldn’t be laughing so soon after
birth. It might, as sunrise, bring
misfortune to the boy. For the
physician and his apprentice, who had seen Domitius up close, however, it was
more than omens or signs. Domitius, it
was true, had red hair, but so did Agrippina’s gardener and the wine merchant
in town. Like her infant, Domitius also
had a thick neck and appeared bowlegged when he walked, but this was true for
many overweight men who rode horses and drank heavily all day.
As she lie there inspecting her son,
Agrippina glanced self-consciously around the room, hoping to win approval for
the boy. Fortunately for her
attendants, Nero’s tantrum drowned them out.
Because of this distraction, she failed to read their expressions and
hear them murmuring under their breaths.
The effect of the drug lingered, and Agrippina’s skin, Flavius noted
with alarm, was becoming flushed. A
feverish look, partially of desperation, grew on her face.
Now, as dawn waxed gold, something
dark moved across the child, creeping as a phantom on the floor. It could have been the shadow of a limb
blowing in the wind, but its effect was immediate in the room. Minerva closed her eyes and Claudia made a
sign, as Flavius and Felix stood their groping for words.
This phenomena frightened everyone in
the room, including the physician, himself.
A cloudy premonition now formed in the old man’s mind as he looked from
mother to child. He stood there
alongside of Felix for several moments, staring into space, recalling a
soothsayer in Rome:
Lo! A prodigy from the house of Julian will one
day darken the world!
When he awakened from his daydream,
Minerva was again changing Nero’s diaper, and Claudia was combing Agrippina’s
hair. In place of the wet nurse, who
had not yet arrived, Minerva used her finger as a pacifier in his mouth. With his eyes shut tightly and lips
quivering, however, Nero continued bawling, his peculiar expression remaining
fixed upon his face. It seemed to the
midwives that he was possessed. Surely
an evil spirit inhabited this boy!
For Flavius, who was not easily
shaken, the greatest evil would be infanticide: a loathsome Roman custom which
allowed putting infants to death.
Fortunately for Agrippina and her son, neither Domitius nor any of her
family members were here. In the next
few days, however, they would arrive in Caligula’s entourage so the emperor
could bestow his blessing upon her son.
They would meet the child, hear the rumors, and see the evidence for
themselves. There was no telling how
Domitius might act or what her unpredictable brother would do. Caligula’s
recent illness had changed him greatly.
The emperor’s physician had called it a fever of the brain. When he awakened, his personality was more
unpredictable than ever. He might, out
of caprice, bless the child or order Domitius to run him through. He could, as emperor, do anything he
wished.
Because of the facts, not the signs,
Flavius felt threatened by this birth.
The omens, if he could believe them, were bad enough for the boy, but
used as proofs of his illegitimacy, they could seal his doom, if not by his
hands, by another physician or the father himself. Unless he was acceptable in his father’s eyes, he could either be
suffocated or left out in the open to die, if Caligula didn’t order Domitius to
personally kill the child. The ultimate
decision, of course, depended upon the emperor’s mood. According to rumors, he was quite mad. Everything would be influenced by what
happened in the next few days.
Agrippina must be well enough to defend herself or put on a good
show. The child must act normal, and
his similarities to Domitius must be glowingly apparent. Their dilemma therefore hinged on the
unknown... .Was Agrippina’s child, in fact, Domitius son? If not, could she fool him into believing he
was? Could Flavius, in good conscience,
assist in an innocent child’s death?
Would his conscience, for that matter, be worth risking his career and,
quite likely, he and his assistants’ very lives just to save one misbegotten
child?
******
As if to underline his concern, the
boy began howling again, in an unnaturally loud, screeching voice. The noise stirred his mother and grated on
everyone’s nerves. But the worst effect
was when it disappeared entirely in breathless, inexplicable rage. He began, with a gaping mouth, to turn blue,
thrashing about wildly in Minerva’s arms.
A terrible gurgling followed her finger, as it retreated out of his
mouth, as he struggled for breath.
Quickly, to protect herself from the evil eye, she made a sign on his
forehead and mumbled “Juno! Hercules! Vagitanus!” under her breathe.
At that point, as if rising from the
dead, Agrippina sat up sluggishly in her bed.
Her eyes were at half mass, and there was a hammering inside her
head. Though she focused upon Minerva
now, she was talking to everyone in the room.
“I know what you’re thinking!” she
cried accusingly. “You think he’s a bastard!
You don’t believe he’s Domitius’ son!”“
“No mistress.” Minerva shook her head
fearfully. “I merely said a prayer, ... an old woman’s superstition, nothing more!”
“Agrippina!” Flavius held out his
hands “Please lie down!”
“Yes mistress, lie down before you
start bleeding!” Claudia came forward now. “Your son’s crying so hard, he’s
choking on his own spit. He could have
an upset stomach, maybe a little gas.
He might also need a mother’s embrace.
Please mistress, take him into
your arms.”
“No!” she shook her head petulantly.
“He wants more milk, but he’s had enough! He’s throwing a tantrum. Give
him a swat! That’s right
Minerva, now give him another. If that
doesn’t work, give him some wine!”
As if trying to convince herself he
was legitimate, Agrippina marveled at her infant’s hair: her one sure proof he
was Domitius’ son. It was, she
explained, a bronze color of red like his father, characteristic of Ahenobarbi
men. “Just wait”, she crowed, “until he
sees the evidence on his head!”
After taking turns rocking him,
singing to him, and blowing air into his face, the midwives handed the infant
to Dora, the designated wet nurse, who glided gracefully into the room. The slave, who had found Dora, gasped,
signed against the evil eye, then hastily departed from the room. Almost immediately, though, as Dora placed
her nipple in his mouth, the boy grew silent, ravenously sucking on her teat.
For several moments, in what struck
Flavius as a goddess-like pose, the beautiful auburn-headed Dora nursed the
child as if he were her own. Neither
the physician, apprentice nor the midwives had ever seen such an appetite in
one so young. Personality traits, which
were already apparent in Nero, included a piercing voice, a gargantuan
appetite, and the desire to have everything his own way.
“Flavius, Felix, and Claudia!”
Agrippina managed to laugh. “Here’s solid evidence for you! My son, like his father, is a glut!”
******
Nero’s feeding frenzy required both of
Dora’s breasts. When he was sound
asleep, she placed him hastily into his crib before collapsing into a nearby
couch. As the boy slept, Agrippina
slumbered less peacefully in her bed.
Flavius took this opportunity to check her pulse, stitches, and the
swelling around her womb. Felix,
Claudia, and Minerva likewise kept watch, hoping that the mistress would remain
sleeping and give them all some peace.
A slight fever followed her delivery, but other than the discomfort of
her stitches and an occasional groan, she slept soundly while the physician,
apprentice, and midwives held their vigil around her bed. They knew that, in Caligula’s state of mind,
they might be blamed if she died. It
therefore caused them great dismay when the mistress grew delirious and began
muttering in her sleep.
For several intense moments, her lips
moved and eyelids twitched. Flavius
began working frantically to cool her down.
Minerva, as directed, sponged her body with cold water. Claudia placed a cold rag on her forehead
and assisted the doctor in pouring his remedy down her throat. All they could do for the time being,
however, was stabilize Agrippina and make her as comfortable as possible, hoping
that the potion would take effect.
As they stood watch, Nero began to
stir. Flavius asked Dora to nurse him
again, while he listened to Agrippina’s chest.
He needed absolute quiet. Fluid
had collected in her lungs, and her heart beat erratically as she
breathed. Strange sounding words and
sometimes whole sentences poured out of her mouth as the fever peaked, causing
her attendants to perk up their ears.
“No Domitius!” she murmured, as they
crowded around her bed. “Please stop!…
I carry you’re son... It’s not Caligula’s or Aemilius’... They don’t
have red hair. It must be yours...
Don’t your remember?… You raped me, you filthy beast!”
At this point, Felix made a whistling
sound under his breath and broke into a grin.
“Did she do it with her own brother?” he muttered to Flavius. “Is that
what Agrippina means?”
The midwives, though scandalized, also smiled as the
physician dragged his apprentice into the hall.
“Listen, you young fool,” the old man
said as he shut the door, “that woman is Germanicus’ daughter, a princess of
Rome! She’s unconscious now, in the
throes of delirium. I don’t know if
she’ll survive. At any moment, however,
she could awaken to catch a trio of eavesdroppers around her bed. You must at all times remain professional
Felix. When you’re in this part of the
house, talk only of medicine or the weather in Rome. When you’re in her room, never linger by her bed or involve
yourself in her moods. Never loiter in
the hall, as we’re doing now. You must
always keep yourself busy here. During
her early years, family intrigue and perversities occurred in this house.”
“Really?” Felix’s eyes widened.
“Yes,” he said, gripping Felix’s
shoulder. “Many people know about Agrippina’s affairs. Adultery with Amelius
is, in itself a scandal, but incest
with her brother Caligula is quite another.
What would she do if she awakened and saw you grinning like an ape? It’s bad enough she’s not sure
whether or not the boy’s Domitius’ son.
This is one of those dark secrets haunting her in her sleep. Agrippina was speaking from her dream world
Felix! It wasn’t intended for our
ears. She might have our heads for what we know!”
******
As they looked in on Agrippina,
Minerva was sponging off her body again.
Claudia had placed another rag on her forehead and began pouring Flavius’
remedy down her throat. As the age-old
method of fever reduction continued, the physician motioned his apprentice back
into the corridor and quickly shut the door.
“Felix,” he touched the young man’s
arm “you’ve been like a son to me!”
“Yes,” Felix returned a tired smile
“we’ve been together a long time.”
“I’m afraid” Flavius confessed sadly
“I’ve placed your life in jeopardy by bringing you into this house!”
“Flavius,” Felix replied in wonder
“before I became your apprentice, I had
no life. I was a slave. You’ve been like a father to me. Because of you, I’m free, and one day, the
gods permit, I’ll become a physician too!”
“Listen,” Flavius shook his head “you
don’t understand! You’d be a better off
at this point if you were somewhere else!
You’d be safer if you had a different profession, especially this close
to Rome!”
“I’m old.” he shuttered at the
thought. “... Until I came to this family, I had a simple life. I trusted in the gods. My main goal was to be a great physician
like Hippocrates and yet serve mankind.
Instead I became a good businessman by serving the house of Julian. As I watched Agrippina and her brother
Caligula grow up during Tiberius’ reign, I saw and heard things which I’ve kept
locked in my soul: sick, foul, and unnatural things. I pretended not to notice them or care. Until you came along Felix, it didn’t matter what I heard or
saw. I was an island in a world gone mad!”
“Now,” he looked deeply into the young
man’s eyes “I’m no longer an island. I
feel as if I’m in the center of a storm.
It’s no longer just my neck I put on the block but yours as well. I wanted you, whom I love like a son, to one
day take my place. Your life is still
beginning, and yet the dark cloud, which fell over me, is upon us both.
“A storm is gathering in Rome.” the
old man seemed to digress. “The sun shines brightly over Antium... but it’s the
cold light of dawn!
“Claudia and Minerva thought they saw
the evil eye in Agrippina’s son. That
may be true. I was not present at the
birth of Germanicus’ older boys.
Agrippina, who I delivered in Germany, caused no trouble when she
arrived. But I remember the day
Caligula was born. It was in this house
and in that same room. First the sun
came out and then it touched him as it did today. Afterwards, for his mother, just like Agrippina, everything went
wrong. The child, who was coming out
feet first, had to be removed by incision.
Though he didn’t have red hair, he had the same awful expression, the
same pale, pitiless eyes, and the same nerve shattering bawl... He, too, laughed at the sun!
“A soothsayer, I heard in the market,
predicted that a prodigy from the house of Julian would one day darken the
world. He would be a singer, an actor
and a poet, he claimed. He would bring
us a gilded age in which a new Rome, based upon foreign influences, would be
built upon the ashes of the old. I’m
not sure Felix, which prodigy he meant: Caligula or Agrippina’s son. He spoke in the future tense, saying he would one day darken the world’, and yet
Caligula’s shadow is already here. More
importantly, I believe, are the details of his prophecy. Caligula, although crafty and glib, is not a
singer or actor; he is, in fact, tone deaf and has two left feet.
“As a physician and man of science, I
should ignore superstition, but here I am repeating what the soothsayer
said. I was never very superstitious
Felix, and yet, after all the years of service in this madhouse, I’m afraid for
my life and also afraid for yours.
“That dirty blight of a man” Flavius
closed his eyes “singled me out of the crowd with his staff, as if I had
control over Julio-Claudian affairs.
I’ll never forget his long silver-streaked beard, gray eyes, and the way
he talked. I’m half convinced he was
talking about Agrippina’s son!”
******
After watching Felix’s face break into
a smile, he felt the warmth of the young man’s hand neutralizing the cold and
darkness he felt inside. “Tell me,” he
heard him ask gently “what frightens you most now? Caligula? Agrippina? . .
Or the infant born in that room?”
“... Until this morning,” Flavius
answered hesitantly “it was Caligula... I still can’t believe he’s emperor of
Rome. Today, after delivering
Agrippina’s son, I’m not sure. I dread
the prospect of him not being Domitius son.
We both know what that means... He could be killed outright, but so
could we Felix for what we’ve
learned. It may be a lot more lethal
for us, in fact, if he lives! ...
Considering he’s legitimate, can I honestly expect Caligula to thank me for
delivering another rival to the throne? ... For that matter, will Agrippina, in
spite of our aid, destroy us for what we know?”
“This morning” the old man confessed
wryly “I found myself frightened by Germanicus’ daughter... I allowed myself to
be intimidated even by her son! In spite of all my medical knowledge, I felt
the same evil eye that bewitched the midwives and the slave who brought Dora to
Agrippina’s room! From a mere babe
Felix, barely out of the womb!
“I don’t believe that Caligula’s good
behavior will last.” the physician shook his head. “He is, in spite of his
play-acting, not a Caesar. It’s hard to
believe he’s even Germanicus son. Like
his predecessor Tiberius, he’s a beast.
He appears to be mad. But other
fears weigh on me Felix, growing each hour I linger in this house. I wonder if Agrippina will live. I wonder what will happen to her baby if
he’s not accepted as Domitius’ son... With the same feeling I had when Caligula
was born, I also wonder, as I look down at her infant, if I’ve brought another monster into the world!”
******
While her son slept, Agrippina waged a
war in her sleep. Armed with Flavius’
remedy, her will to live battled with her affliction, while a nightmare played
inside her head. This, her first life
and death struggle, was unseen by the world, and yet it was fought with the
same dauntless, ironclad will that had allowed her to survive Tiberius’ reign. Reluctantly, she had born a son and, without
knowing it yet, given birth to her life’s greatest cause: Nero, who for the
time being, remained nameless, fatherless, and unwanted by the princess giving
him life.
Agrippina had suffered much because of
him. From the moment she discovered she
was pregnant, her life had become a living nightmare, which was worsened by her
brother’s elevation to the throne. The
dream she was now having was therefore filled with both childhood themes and
pent-up fears for what lie ahead. She
began to relive the most unpleasant episodes of her life, from her mistreatment
at the hands of young Caligula, through the terror of Tiberius’ reign, up to
the present week of expectation and dread.
Presently, as the midwives looked down
with concern at her, her eyelids fluttered and lips trembled. Memories, disguised as dream imagery, had
replaced the murky and muted landscape in her mind. A familiar anxiety filled her as the nightmare unfolded in her brain.
The characters in her dream were drawn
from various periods of her life. The
plot was a blend of historical events in a setting that included scenes from
her childhood in Germany and Syria and those terrible years in Antium and Rome
during Tiberius’ purge. The same themes
of torment, guilt, and grief would be dealt with again. Central to her dream, as it had been
throughout her pregnancy, would be Caligula, Tiberius, and her husband
Domitius: the dark trilogy of both her past and present, which always began and
ended with Caligula, who continued to torment her even as she slept.
Suddenly, as if her ears had been
unstopped and vision restored, the fog cleared and a surreal patchwork of
buildings and scenery from her past appeared.
Mental impressions of Germany, Syria, Antium, and Rome, forever stored
in her memory, loomed all around her, making it impossible to know where she
was.
She could see the toga clad bodies of
both friends and enemies moving toward her in a grand procession. They had spotted her. Even at a distance she could discern
Tiberius at the forefront. Walking next
to him, beside his favorite horse Cincinnatus, was Caligula. Behind them were members of the Julian,
Claudian, and Ahenobarbi houses, including Augustus, who walked arm-in-arm with
his wife Livia, Augustus long dead son Postumus (executed after his father’s
death), Tiberius’ son Drusus, who, like Augustus, had been poisoned by his
wife, her own parents (Germanicus and Agrippina the Elder) and older
brothers—all murdered during Tiberius’ purge, and the living representatives of
the Ahenobarbi approaching on opposite ends of the field: her husband Domitius
(in his chariot) and his sister Domitia Lepidus (being escorted by two Nubian
slaves).
Claudius walked alongside of his wife
Messalina but was busily looking through one of his scrolls. All around these aristocrats were several
famous senators and knights, who had been victims of Tiberius purge, including
the emperor’s henchmen, himself, Sejanus, and countless patricians whose faces
Agrippina could not yet place.
Living and dead, friend and foe alike
mixed happily together in a great multitude of faces and bodies, the
light-hearted hum of their voices disturbed at times by the mad laughter of
Caligula, cackle of Livia, and demented guffaws of Tiberius as he led the way.
She stood on top of a hill that
overlooked her past. Although the
surrounding landscape reminded her of Germany, a distant shaft of sunlight fell
on the Circus Maximus and Forum of Rome.
There were dark trees the color of the Black Forest as a backdrop. The sky was overcast as it often was on the
Rhine, and she could see the wooden fortifications built by Roman legions on
the frontier. But there was also a
volcano, very much like Vesuvius, spewing an ominous trail of smoke and, in
addition to scenes from Germany and Syria, several other strange unRoman
settings she had seen in Egypt, Africa, and Spain.
The blend of Eastern, barbaric, and
Graeco-Roman architecture and scenery was made all the more confusing by the
images popping up randomly in her dream.
Camels browsed in wheat fields alongside of elephants, sheep, and
goats. Pyramids were silhouetted in the
horizon beside a monolith, which looked like the Colossus of Rhodes. A fanciful mixture of long necked peacocks,
giant dormice, and multicolored apes also appeared in her dream.
Normally this would have intrigued
Agrippina, but her main concern now was the crowd. Marching toward her, in a great sea of humanity, were the people
from her past. At least half of them,
she estimate, had been murdered during Tiberius’ reign. Many of these ghosts, including her own
family, floated ethereally over the ground, while others, such as the deceased
Tiberius behaved as he had in life.
Most of the patricians seemed mildly curious or laughed and pranced like
children across the field.
Several members of the crowd, she had
already noted, were doing what they loved best. Domitius was cracking his whip and riding his chariot, a vehicle
he had once used to run down a child.
His sister Domitia, while eating from a cluster of grapes, was suddenly
stripped to the waste, allowing her slaves to fondle her breasts.
Claudius, her favorite uncle, was, of
course reading while his immature bride scampered beside him, his nervous tick
in full motion as he followed the crowd.
Livia, who Claudius believed, poisoned
Augustus, was berating him about something he said, while Tiberius had found a
young girl to caress, and the emperor was in an animated discussion with his
horse.
It might have been amusing to
Agrippina if she had been in a different frame of mind. With the memory of her son’s birth in her
mind, however, she looked around expectantly at this scene, her ear craned and
eyes scanning, as if searching for a certain voice and face.
As always, the meaning of her dream
escaped her. She could not fathom its
symbolism or understand its plot. The
flora, fauna, and geography were constantly changing. Even the people, the only constants in her dreamscape, changed
noticeably from time to time: Caligula transformed back and forth into a child,
adolescent, and young adult; Augustus appeared at times the dashing image of
his statues, while Livia grew even older into a toothless, crotchety old hag.
By the time the crowd had come any
closer, Domitius had ran over several pedestrians, Domitia had fornicated with
her slaves, and Tiberius’ victim had escaped.
A stream, which was the color of
blood, now flowed around the hill and into the valley beyond, barring passage
to the crowd, but inspiring members to stand at the water’s edge and beckon her
to cross.
“Come over! Join us!” Caligula called.
“Yes,” Tiberius and Livia cried
simultaneously “Join us child!”
“Absolutely not!” she screamed. “Why
can’t you leave me alone? I know what
you want. You want someone to laugh
at. You’d do anything for sport. You
watch men and wild animals kill each other in the arena while eating fine foods
and drinking expensive wines. Blood
doesn’t bother you, and yet natural love between a man and a woman outside of a
degrading marriage does!” “Shame on you! All of you!” she wrung her finger, not daring to call out names.
“You, who have no shame, dare look
down on me?” she pointed to Domitia
and several of her friends. “You’re
hypocrites, all of you, for what you say about me! You, who fondle young boys and girls or those of the same sex,
criticize me for indiscretion.” “You,”
she flashed Caligula and then her husband a frown “who talks to his horse, dare
question my judgment? And you who bedded his own sister dare act
as my judge?”
“Shame on you and you and you!” she
glared at Tiberius, Livia, and old Augustus, who gave her a startled look. “You
should have cleaned up your own houses before looking into mine!” “Over yonder
is the Circus Maximus.” She pointed angrily. “I’m sure you can find plenty of
entertainment there! I’m not coming over this time. Leave me in peace! I’m through playing this
game!”
“Come to us Agrippina!” She heard her
husband Domitius’ voice.
“I’ll protect you!” she heard Ursos,
her gardener call.
It was as if they had not heard a word
she said. After listening to several
more calls, Agrippina turned her back on the multitude and folded her
arms. In an attitude of defiance, when
she heard dozens more voices asking her to cross, she put her fingers in her
ears and shut her eyes.
“I won’t cross over! I won’t!” she stomped her foot and began
racing toward the other side of the hill.
“Not this time! Not ever! I’m a princess now. If my
father was emperor, I could have you all put
to death!”
It had almost become a ritual for
Agrippina, spoken each time she was asked to cross. She never once took her role as imperial princess seriously. But this time, due perhaps to her fever, she
felt a greater rush of power. She
didn’t have to escape. The hill on
which she stood was her domain. They
could not cross the stream or they would have done so by now. Dashing back to top of the hill, she began
hurling insults directly at Tiberius now, whom she called a pederast and
murderer. She also attacked her
husband’s infamy, her sister-in-laws lechery, but stopped short of calling the
living emperor Caligula, himself, an infamous murderer and lecher too.
She was also irritated with her
parents. They both just stood there
glumly beside their two dead sons, as others beckoned her to cross, as impotent
to help her in death as they had been in life.
As always, she waited for the protective hug from her mother that had
rarely ever come. Equally, she missed
the embrace of a father she never got to know.
In spite of her frustration with them, she paused briefly to flash them
a smile.
Directing her insults to all those
patricians who had wronged her in her life, she made a sweeping motion with her
arms.
“My friend Seneca said you’ve become a
race of perverts and sycophants. Look
at you!” she shouted with disgust. “I would rather have been born a plebeian,
with their honest, forthright values, than be part of this bunch. You’re all liars, cheats, and
hypocrites. None of you, except my
Uncle Claudius and parents, have ever done an honest day’s work in your life!”
Across the water, as she babbled, the
same wooden bridge appeared. But this
time to her wonder, a red-haired boy ran passed her, running down the hill, and
over the bridge, calling “Mother!
Mother! Come over! Join us!
Our destiny waits!”
Agrippina’s angry expression now
changed to slack-jawed awe.
“Destiny!” she marveled at his claim.
“What destiny is this?”
In previous dreams, he had been
featureless, a cloudy blur, always disappearing into the crowd. She had hated him for shattering her peace
of mind. But this boy, who had plagued
her for nine months, ran in slow motion.
She saw his face and body up close.
He was tall, fair skinned, and had red-hair like his father Domitius,
the gardener Ursos, and the wine merchant from Rome. Even her dour-face parents and older brothers turned in amazement
as he passed.
The change in theme was like the rays
of light on the Forum. Into this
surreal setting, he radiated: a clarion call in a mindless chatter of voices, a
bright visage in a mad, fuzzy dreamscape that, up until now, made no sense at
all.
The stream, she now told herself, had
been a reminder of Tiberius bloody reign, a dynasty in which she was
trapped. Perhaps, Vesuvius, which like Germany,
was geographically misplaced, implied trouble ahead.
The boy, who had been her unborn son,
had again passed over the bridge to become lost in the crowd, stabbing her
conscience each time he appeared in her dream... But now, as the “red-haired
boy”, he now had an identity. It was up
to her to seek him out, as she had before.
Perhaps this time she would her from his own lips learn who had fathered
her son. Now, however, the field had
been reduced to three men: Domitius, Ursos, or the wine merchant from Rome.
Gone as quickly as it came was her
caution and resolve.
“Little red-haired boy! Come back!” she cried belatedly, running
recklessly toward the bridge.
As though her face was close by, she
could hear her mother’s voice whisper sternly into her ear “Let him be
child. Let him find his destiny on his
own!”
As before, her mother’s warning went
unheeded, as she ran down the hill, crossed the stream, and plunged into the
crowd on the other side.
As the crowd parted, Agrippina whooped
with joy. Her initial happiness at
seeing the color of her son’s hair, flooded like tonic back into her mind. She knew she was fortunate to have a
red-haired boy. Her husband had red
hair. Everyone would see this and, in
spite of Domitius’ doubts, believe he was their son... Everyone, that is,
except the people that counted. Her
husband, her sister-in-law Domitia, and her demented brother may not be so
easily fooled.
At this point, as she ran through the
crowd, she felt more confident than she ever had before. The rumors she suffered before would not
become accusations. With such evidence
before their eyes, they would have to accept the red-haired boy as her child...
At least, this is what Agrippina believed as she continued searching the crowd.
An ornate Roman fountain, similar to
one they owned in Syria, appeared directly in front of her, spouting a
sparkling geyser of water from the central fount. Several members of the audience reached out to her, pulling at
her dress and hair. Though they had
been unable to cross the stream, she was on their side now. With the fountain blocking her passage, they
closed ranks around her, making it impossible for her to retreat.
Something dreadful was happening to
her now. She was moving into a little
girl phase of her nightmare. She could
feel herself shrinking before their eyes.
She found herself looking up into their leering faces. Everyone, except her parents, Ursos, and her
Uncle Claudius, who stood forlornly in the background, were waiting for the
show.
“Let me pass. Let me find my son!” she demanded in a
high-pitched child-like voice.
Many of them laughed at her
brashness. A few even reached down and
patted her head.
She knew, without knowing how she
knew, what to expect. They would, as
she began reliving episodes from her childhood, laugh and point at her as she
asked about her son. She was an outcast
and pariah in her dream and the center of everyone’s jokes.
“Oh look,” Calpurnius Piso, one of her
father’s enemies, exclaimed, “There’s little Agrippina. What would Germanicus think of his daughter
now?”
“The gods’ know,” Piso’s wife
tittered. “Perhaps he’d cut off her head!”
In the real world, Agrippina would
have responded to such an affront. But
this was not the real world; it was a dreamscape, based upon Agrippina’s
conscience and inhibited fears. Here,
she could not hide or manipulate the truth.
At this point, trapped in a child’s body, she felt confused. Despite the indignation she carried even as
she dreamed, she also felt vulnerable.
In her nightmare, she was either a naughty, willful child, a spoiled
teenager, or a reprobate adult. At
times, as shown by Piso and his wife, she might be looked upon as all three.
In this dream, however, the cycle of
moving back and forth from a youngster, to a promiscuous teenager, and then an
adult still pregnant with her son, had been broken. Her son had been born.
Her moment of truth had come.
She felt somehow liberated, but also more afraid because of the greater
scrutiny in the crowd.
The “pregnant adulteress” theme had
been replaced with the “bastard son” theme, which she experienced as both an
adult and a child. The plot, which had
been predictable in the past, was changing before her eyes. Her own parents, normally staring blankly
into space, were frowning disapprovingly at her now. Not only was she a social outcast, but so was her child, who, at
this point, didn’t even have a name. He
was simply the “red-haired boy”. His
very presence was both an indictment against her and yet, she wanted to believe,
irrefutable proof that he was Domitius son.
Finally, amidst the amused expressions
of her audience, she again saw the face of the red-haired little boy. He had blue eyes like Domitius but also like
Ursos and the wine merchant Archelaeus, who all had the same color of
hair. Beyond the circle of spectators,
sitting in his chariot and holding his whip, was her husband Domitius, who had
an angry scowl on his face.
In spite of her previous euphoria, a
familiar fear gripped her now, as she spotted her husband in the distance and
then Caligula standing in the crowd.
“There she is Caesar,” she heard
Domitius Lepida’s nasally voice
“Agrippina, the mother of whores!” “Tell me dear,” she was looking down
at a diminutive Agrippina, who had just wet her pants. “How are you going to
explain this to Caligula and Domitius?
Do you really think they’re going to let your bastard live?”
“No! No!” she wept, rubbing her eyes.
“I didn’t do anything wrong! It’s
Domitius child; it’s not the gardener’s son!”
Suddenly, from the outside world,
Agrippina heard voices.
“What did she say?” Agrippina heard
Felix, the physician’s apprentice, ask.
“Felix, I heard Felix,” she cried
hopefully, looking passed Domitia into the crowd.
“She’s delirious. She’s talking nonsense now. We must disregard what she says!” Flavius
was heard to reply.
“Flavius! Dear Flavius!” she cried.
She also heard the comforting voices
of her midwives, cooing to her, offering encouragement, and attempting to allay
her fears. Unable to see these comforting
links to the outside world, however, she remained trapped in her dream.
A golden haired little boy, whom her
father’s troops had affectionately called Little Boots (Caligula), now stepped
forth into in her dreamscape, as he had those many years ago in Germany and
Syria. But this time Caligula did not
sneak up on her or lie in wait behind a bush, as he had in previous
dreams. This time he did it out in the
open. He had an audience watching from
all sides, as if a play was being presented on stage.
Augustus and Tiberius who had hated
each other in life, stood cheerfully side-by-side. Not far away from them stood her parents, Agrippina the Elder and
Germanicus, and her two older brothers Nero and Drusus—all of which Tiberius had
either directly or indirectly put to death.
Mingling into this ghostly entourage was that same mixture of living and
dead patricians, including Tiberius’ mother Livia, her husband Domitius, his
sister Domitia, and, last but not least, the grown-up emperor Gaius (Caligula),
who was laughing at this reenactment of his life.
In spite of the fever wracking her
body, she felt chilled by these people.
Most of them were her enemies.
Despite her subconscious urge to reach out to the voices of Flavius and
his staff, she was unable to awaken this time.
She would have to play her part until the end.
As her physician and his staff looked
on, helpless to rescue her from her dream, Agrippina hovered in a coma, her
high fever further altering its plot.
******
Caligula began to do in public, to the
applause of her enemies, what he most often did when no one was around: torment
Agrippina. This time, she sensed, no
one would protest or intervene. They
had another spectacle to watch.
There had been a limitless range of
tortures inflicted upon Agrippina when their parents were gone. Now, during this bizarre nightmare, she was
experiencing a combination of several ordeals.
First, Caligula ran at her with noose
in his hand, with the notion to hang her on a nearby tree. He had tried before, she recalled, but this
time, he actually got it around her neck and began yanking on the rope.
Not knowing that, in her illness, she
was suffering congestion, and the sensation of being hanged was actually fluid
collecting in her lungs, Agrippina kicked her little legs and thrashed her arms
wildly, managing, despite Caligula’s persistence, to pull the rope from her
neck, drop to the ground, and flee.
She had not been frightened this time
so much as outraged that no one would help.
For some reason her sisters, Livilla and Drusilla, always supportive in
her dreams, were not in this episode.
The deceased members of her family had deadpan looks on their faces,
behaving very much like what they were: ghosts, from the land of the dead. Augustus, who normally hung back with a
scowl on his face and looked upon his grandson with disdain, was grinning
approvingly this time. Tiberius, who
was also a ghost, seemed almost demented, giggling sadistically at her plight.
Among the living were her
sister-in-law Domitia and her husband Domitius, who continued to look on
supportively as the emperor egged little Caligula on.
Next, after a series of petty acts of
mischief and mayhem, she began to have a replay of the day he tried setting
fire to her hair, but this time, she could feel the flames on her gown, as she
dove into the fountain nearby. There
was no pain, not even the sensation of heat.
There was only a terrible anguish now, especially since her mother,
father, and older brothers would not intervene.
“I’m glad you’re dead!” she cried
bitterly. “You never supported me while you were alive!” “And you” she pointed accusingly at her
father “where never there!”
“Mother’s little mistake!” Little
Boots began chanting, after trying unsuccessfully to dunk her in the fountain.
“You don’t even look like our father or mother. You’re a bastard. So’s your son!”
“That’s a lie!” she cried, breaking
free and running into the crowd.
“Mother’s little mistake!” the
audience chimed.
“No-o-o-o!” Agrippina mumbled aloud
from her dream world. “Domitius has red hair.
So does our wine merchant Archelaeus.
You can’t prove he’s the
gardener’s son!”
“Shut up!” She heard Flavius cry. “Merciful gods, Agrippina, shut up!”
It was one of her voices again. She looked up to the darkened surreal sky,
as if commuting with the gods. For
Agrippina who was confronting her worst fears and fighting for her life,
however, the voice of Flavius and the sounds of the apprentice and midwives
asking him what she meant were far faraway.
******
In the period following, she relived
later chapters of her life, including her family’s voyage to Syria, which was,
in itself, a painful ordeal. Caligula
was especially naughty aboard their ship, playing several pranks on she and her
sisters, until they reached port. For
some reason, as they disembarked, Agrippina took a magical detour from this
episode and wound up back in Rome.
There, as a young budding women, she
relived portions of her life, a smile breaking her fevered face. In her delirium, she spoke the names of many
of her lovers one by one, but it was still too muffled for anyone to hear. Then she called out Ursos name, as one
particularly delightful tryst filled her mind
By now the physician, apprentice, and
midwives realized that the gardener, wine merchant, or anyone else in
Agrippina’s shady past could have fathered her son. As the others craned their ears, however, only Flavius knew of
the sheer magnitude of her adulterous and sordid past. For him her ill-timed confessions came as no
surprise.
In her dream, as a young adult, she
experienced imagined rather than historical terrors, such as a fictitious
episode in which her husband Domitius beat her after catching her with Ursos,
the gardener with red hair. Afterwards,
her grandmother Livia, who had always hated her, cackled madly as Domitius laid
on his whip. Soon, as Domitius’ hand
grew tired, all of her relatives, living and dead, watched as Augustus,
Tiberius, and Caligula (Rome’s first three emperors) took turns beating her
with her husband’s whip.
In spite of the sound of the lash as
it connected with her flesh, she could not feel physical pain. She had also not felt pain when she was
being hung and after being set on fire.
This time it was almost humorous, as the ends of the whip fell on her
bare skin like wet seaweed, breaking off after each encounter and falling onto
the floor.
Also hovering comically throughout her
dream were the disembodied and leering heads of Domitius, Ursos, and
Archelaeus, the wine merchant—reminders of both her adulteries and resulting
pregnancy—any one of which could have fathered her son
Finally, in a new dreamscape, just
when her uncle Tiberius and grandmother Livia had bound her hands and feet and
were ready to throw her off a cliff, her mother Agrippina the Elder
appeared. Reaching out to her in what
seemed to be a protective embrace, her mother appeared to be rescuing her from
her attackers, until a frown grew on her face.
The senior Agrippina, as had others
before her, began berating her for her immoral, slothful ways. As the backdrop of potential fathers, which
included Caligula himself, continued to float as spirits in her dream, her
mother’s hug turned into an angry embrace.
Agrippina the Elder shook her violently, spat insults into her face, and
then began pummeling her with her fists.
But Agrippina’s body remained numb, feeling only emotional pain, her
encounter with her dead mother, as she withdrew into the darkness, leaving only
sadness in her mind.
******
As the midwives sponged her body, the
apprentice felt her pulse, and the physician poured more remedy down her
throat, another chapter of her life began to untangle as she slept. Darkness began to fade as daylight slowly
returned, finding her two oldest brothers lying dead on the floor, starved and
emaciated, so that their skin stretched as leather over their bones. Even worse to behold was a glimpse of her
mother, who, half-starved herself, appeared horribly beaten, and lie in a pool
of blood.
She found herself surrounded by ghosts
now. Along with countless friends and
associates murdered during Tiberius’ reign, rippling amongst them as
reflections in dark water, were members of her family. Germanicus, her mother Agrippina, and their
two older sons reached out mutely to her, fading into black as if the candle
that had radiated them had suddenly died.
A scream begin to build up in her
throat. The death of her father and her
brothers had been bad enough for her, but the murder of her mother had left Agrippina
and her sisters Livilla and Drusilla at the mercy of Caligula for several
years.
Her uncle Claudius once told her that
it was Caligula who had poisoned her father.
He had heard him boast that Germanicus had eaten the food of the
gods. This statement, Claudius had
believed, could mean only one thing: Germanicus food had been poisoned by
Caligula himself, probably at the instigation of Tiberius’ agent Calpurnius
Piso but most certainly on orders from the emperor, himself. With the death of Germanicus, her mother and
two older brothers had been left to Tiberius’ mercy, suffering dreadful fates,
all because Little Boots had placed poison in his father’s food.
A loud wail filled her dream world,
ending as a mere moan in her throat. As
darkness descended, she collapsed as a broken marionette, weeping piteously for
herself and her family.
“There-there mistress!” Claudia’s
voice lilted into her ears. “You’re just having a bad dream. Soon you’ll awaken and find you have a brand
new son!”
“Poor dear! Poor sick soul!” Minerva wrung her hands.
******
As her Uncle Tiberius and Caligula
reappeared, she saw her father point accusingly at them as they walked her
way. She could hear them arguing as
they turned away from Germanicus, who, as a mere ghost, could not be heard or
seen. When she remembered that Tiberius
was dead too, she laughed hysterically to herself as her father disappeared and
her uncle and brother approached.
As if he had not murdered most of her
family, Tiberius seemed delighted at seeing her again.
“Look Caligula!” he cackled. “There’s
your little sister Agrippina! She’s all
grown up now. Look at those melon-sized
breasts! Agrippina! Agrippina!
Give your grandfather a kiss!”
“Leave me be!” she whimpered, rising
shakily to her feet.
“The little whore mated with one of
her slaves,” Caligula informed him. “I think it’s high time we have a talk with
this slut!”
“Are you pregnant Agrippina?” Tiberius
frowned down at her. “We must protect the family name!”
“Oh, she’s pregnant all right dear
uncle.” Caligula responded wryly. “I thought it might be mine, but then I was
told he had red hair!”
“You filthy, uncouth beast!” Tiberius
shook his head yet managed to laugh. “You condemn her after raping her yourself!”
“Oh, I didn’t rape her uncle!”
Caligula lied, patting Tiberius’s back. “Did I Agrippina?” He reached out to
her now. “Agrippina gave in. Agrippina always gives in willingly after
awhile. Don’t you sister?”
“The baby’s my husband’s!” she cried
out. “He has red hair, just like his father!”
“So does Ursos, your gardener.”
Caligula smiled malevolently. “And, if I remember correctly Domitius was away
from Italia at just about the time your slave planted his seed!”
“Caligula,” Tiberius said venomously
“I think it’s time we find Domitius’ whip.”
“Whip, nothing! I think it’s time to get my sword!” Caligula
swore. “I’m going to stop this disgrace once and for all! So help me uncle, I’ll kill them both!”
******
A sudden detour into the past now
followed which found Agrippina, still a young woman, running down a long, dark
corridor, opening a door, and finding herself in her own room. Her brother and cousin Aemilius had been
taking turns molesting her younger sisters, but claimed they had been waiting
just for her. Agrippina had, as her
sister Livilla, fought to no avail as her attackers pinned her down. Rape was nothing new to her mind. Domitius had raped her often enough in the
past. Caligula and Aemilius had tried
to seduce her several times. But this
particular ordeal, which forced she and her sisters to perform incest with her
brother and cousin, would forever warp her perspective toward men.
As they withdrew as jackals after a
feast, she lie there weeping alongside of Livilla and Drusilla. For some reason in the dream version of her
ordeal, Messalina, Claudius’ young wife, was also on the bed, laughing
sadistically at her grief. Also
incredible to her in her dream state was Drusilla’s behavior. The real life Drusilla, she recalled, had
enjoyed being deflowered. Although he
had not been present originally, Uncle Claudius stood helplessly in the
background shaking his gray head in despair.
As if some inner voice told her it was
time to move, Agrippina found herself rising naked from the disheveled bed and
running back down a corridor that seemed to lead nowhere, until she came to
another door.
After opening the door, she had
arrived in her bedroom in Antium, the city in which she currently lived. There seemed to be no place where she could
hide. Quickly, as she heard commotion
all around her, she threw on a robe, biting her knuckles so she wouldn’t
scream.
At this time, a familiar figure from
her recent past appeared, which sent another shock wave through her brain. Ursos, the gardener with red hair, wrapped
in chains, was thrust into her room.
Behind him she heard Caligula’s whiny voice. He was calling Agrippina an adulteress and accusing Ursos of
fathering her child. From the shadows,
while Ursos knelt in the light, he appeared, lifting his oversized sword into
the air.
Flavius, her physician, who appeared
suddenly in her dream, stood by helplessly to the side now as Caligula, with
all his meager strength, whacked cut off Ursos’ head. In the outside world that same Flavius and his staff could hear
Agrippina mumbling feverishly about Ursos, Caligula, and her unnamed son.
Into the picture and her dream her
father Germanicus reappeared as a radiant demigod. In defense of his daughter finally, as she had hoped, he
unsheathed his own sword and slew Caligula and Aemilius but let her son, the
red-haired, blue-eyed youth she had seen in the crowd, escape.
“My brother! Where is my brother?” he cried, running into the orchard where
Ursos worked.
Her dreamscape was filled with dubious
symbolism, but now it was beginning to make sense. From the surreal panorama of the places she visited as a child,
until the red-haired boy’s reference to his brother, she had encountered mostly
nonsense. Bizarre animals had mingled
together in a senseless hodgepodge of actual and make-believe species. A distorted yet familiar architecture filled
the landscape in a jumbled mosaic of Roman, Eastern, and German forms. Egyptian Pyramids sat next to a giant
colossus, while a volcano belched smoke into sky.
Playing on this strange, nightmarish
stage, were the countless people who, for good or evil touched her life. At times, to her disapproval, Her ghost-like
parents, uncles, aunts, and friends walked arm-in-arm with her enemies. Augustus and Tiberius, who were both deceased,
and Caligula, who had been a mere toddler when Augustus died, acted like
colleagues, all three emperors appearing to be ruling at the same time.
This pattern for all her dream images,
in which the dead and the living mingled happily together, defied history. Time did not exist in here. Space had been warped into a geographical
puzzle in which all the pieces had seemed to be scattered by the gods.
Behind her father’s shadowy figure, as
if the walls to her chambers melted away with dawn, the panorama she had seen
before now reappeared. Vesuvius, which
had been dormant for so long, now erupted full force, and yet it had no effect
upon the inhabitants of the city below.
Such symbols as the stream, which was
the color of blood and the volcano erupting in the distance made her think that
something evil was going to occur.
There were other symbols in her dream that made no sense at all and made
her wonder if she, like her brother was going mad. But the red-haired boy’s cry “Mother! Mother! Come over! Join us!
Our destiny waits!” made her
believe that something good was about to begin for her. Was it the birth of her son? Was it something he was going to do? ... She
had felt an intuitive feeling for months now.
It was as if her luck was going to change... Were their destinies really
intertwined?
Now her dreamscape was bringing her up
to the present, providing her with a glimpse of Ursos being murdered by
Caligula, of course—who else? and the news that her red-haired son has a
brother. “Splendid!” Agrippina cried,
laughing hysterically in her sleep.
But the greatest image in her dream
came last, when he was least expected, bringing the most dreaded portent of
them all.
As she looked past her father, who
stood motionless for several moments holding his sword, she saw the people from
her past. A great gathering of spirits,
most of them murdered during Tiberius’ reign, floating in a disembodied wave
toward her villa. This time it was
minus the dark prince, shadowy husband, and other ugly images of her life... At
the forefront of this multitude was the red-haired boy, wearing a purple robe
and wearing a golden crown.
“No, this is a joke!” she gasped with
disbelief. “My son, who is a bastard, can never rule Rome. It would’ve been better had he never been
born!”
“If your brother can be emperor,”
Germanicus spoke for the first time “ anyone
can!”
“Father!” she held out her hands.
“Beware of the red-haired boy!” he
said, pointing his sword at her. “... And beware of the gardener’s son!”
Not quite understanding what he meant,
she looked up fearfully at her father, who had just executed his own son,
contemplating his enigmatic frown.
Looking with pity on Agrippina, who
had only known him a short while, Germanicus stood there glowing in his
breastplate and cape, his bloody sword dripping on the floor, saying “My poor
daughter! With such a sword, your son
will one day slay you!”
Upon this ominous note, Agrippina ran
shrieking into the shadows, her delirium again reaching the audible range. This time, as her fever reached a peak, only
unintelligible driveling poured out of her mouth.
To her attendants, she had the look of
death. For several moments her lips and
eyelids stopped moving, as Agrippina seemed bound for the land of the
dead. Her breath flowed thinly, her
chest rattled with an ominous wheeze, and she ceased mumbling under her
breath. The room was deathly
quiet. All movement in and about
Agrippina’s body abated, as she remained trapped in the shadow of sleep.
******
As Agrippina slept, she embarked upon
another nightmare: a vision of damnation that would become her darkest
dream. As her temperature soared,
darkness crashed upon her dreamscape, blotting out intelligent thought,
allowing her only a vague awareness of her life as she drifted into the black
void of death.
The sundial in her garden, which her
father brought from Greece, moved slowly from late morning, passed noon, into
early afternoon.
When the potion began taking effect
and Agrippina’s temperature began to fall, she felt as if she was in a great
dark tunnel, floating on the River Styx.
Far away, at the end of the tunnel, there was a radiance, muffled
voices, and figures silhouetted against the glow.
She could hear the Ferryman on her
barge moving his oar to the right and left, as he navigated the Styx, his
shadowy form moving silently in the dark.
As they came closer and closer, the
bodies, which seemed so animated, appeared to be wreathing or dancing in the
light. From such a great distance, she could
not tell whether or not they were singing or wailing, happy or sad, but was
reminded of a word she had heard recently in Rome... hell.
With the memory of this word,
Agrippina remembered the circumstances in which she heard it and felt a
prickling at the back of her neck.
She was at a banquet celebrating the
emperor’s good health. Similar to
Agrippina’s condition, he had fallen into a dark, shadowy sleep. The reason for his illness was never discovered. It was suggested by Claudius in a recent letter
that it might have been a disease of the brain that caused his high fever. But his illness had been kept a secret so
well that not even her own physician Flavius had known. Her uncle also claimed that Caligula had
remained cloistered in the palace and would see no one except his sister
Drusilla and a few close friends. No
one, not even Claudius, had known of its effect upon his personality or that a
banquet would be thrown when the emperor was well enough to attend.
Agrippina had left the capital during
Tiberius’ reign and now an outsider in Rome.
Her only news of imperial events and the latest gossip came from her
uncle, sister Livilla, and friends. Her
remoteness might have been the reason she was not given a formal invitation
instead of the sudden escort, but it seemed more likely that her brother wanted
her to squirm a little before she arrived.
Rumors overheard from her guards that
Caligula was even more deranged than before, had not impressed Agrippina, who
remembered her sickly brother’s theatrics when he was a child. He had been a delicate but devious
youth. She couldn’t imagine him being
any worse than he already was.
When they were children, he had teased
her constantly no matter what the cost.
He had always been a sadist and pervert. His mother had scolded and spanked him for his misbehavior to no
avail. He was simply a bigger sadist
and pervert now. As they grew up,
though, he grew more proficient in his cruelty. He had tried drowning her, hanging her, and even setting her on
fire. Not so long ago, while her
husband Domitius was away, he and his cousin Aemelius had raped she and her
sisters in her room. Drusilla had
seemed to enjoy her experience, but Agrippina and Livilla were emotionally
scarred by their ordeal. He had never treated
them with the decency they deserved, not even when Agrippina was with child.
Tonight, in spite of her advanced
pregnancy, she had been ordered to attend his celebration. Her escort had arrived at her villa with
written orders that she leave for Rome at once.
She remembered the arduous journey
north and the stony faced centurion who refused to answer her questions: “What
is this all about? ... Am I being arrested? ... What have I done wrong?”
She recalled entering the great
atrium, exhausted from her travel, looking around the room and feeling
intimidated, but then finding herself seated next to friends. She was not alone in her fear. Several hundred other guests, all frightened
by what they had heard, were much too concerned about themselves to notice
her. Despite her misgivings, Caligula’s
servants had managed to isolate her from her enemies by placing her with her
sister Livilla, the philosopher Seneca, and several of her friends.
“I never thought I’d admit it,” she
said to Livilla “but matters could be much worse!”
Domitius, her husband, who was
currently unwelcome in the palace, could be sitting next to her. Her brother could have deliberately placed
her in hostile company instead of with her friends. Thanks to her friend Pomponia, her pregnancy was camouflaged by a
cleverly designed gown.
For a short period of time, she could
forget who she was. She had not yet
begun feeling like a royal princess; it was hard enough accepting the fact that
her brother was Emperor of Rome. But
she felt now as if she was part of something grand: a patrician and member of
the nobility, sharing in the bounty of Rome.
After such a troubled life, the devastating loss of her parents, being
at the mercy of Tiberius and his mother for so long, she had arrived in her
right mind, with few physical scars and the uncanny feeling that she had a
mission in her life. She was lucky just to be alive!
Several friendly faces greeted her as
a kindly dark stranger, suspecting her condition, seated her delicately onto a
cushion specially designed to support her back.
“Why thank you.” She flashed him a
look of surprise.
“A princess should really be sitting
in a place of honor, not this far from the throne,” he replied boldly,
signaling for a server to bring her wine.
“Humph!” a patrician lady turned up
her nose. “Caligula’s slaves are as arrogant as himself!”
“I’m not a slave.” he bowed to the
lady across the table, winking back at Agrippina as she began sipping her wine.
“I’m a freedman in the service of the Emperor of Rome.”
“Well, you’re working for a madman
then.” the woman replied petulantly. “This so-called celebration is a sham!”
“What is you name?” Agrippina asked,
searching the man’s olive-skinned face.
Finding no expression while he was looking at the lady, she noticed the
faintest smile when he turned his attention to her. The man didn’t even blink, however. He was either very controlled, she decided, or very cold.
“My name is Pallas,” he answered after
a pause. Bowing again, then looking
down into her dark eyes, he extended a bejeweled hand.
“You wear too much jewelry for a
Roman.” The patrician lady, who was obviously drunk, snarled. “You must be a
Greek or one of those eunuchs whom Caligula calls a friend.”
“I’m at your services,” he murmured to
Agrippina, motioning with the toss of his head the front of the hall. “...
Things will go badly now in Rome with a mad Emperor on the throne!”
Agrippina uttered a nervous laugh,
still hoping for a dramatic performance by her brother tonight. But she had heard first hand from a member
of Caligula’s staff as well as from the aristocracy... The emperor was mad!
******
Agrippina had been impressed with
Pallas. He had been unaffected and
unmoved by the basest of insults. She
had always felt she was a great judge of men, most of whom, she believe, were
good for only one thing. But this man
was not like those brash and reckless warriors, such as her husband, who
cluttered up her life.
She had been delighted that her sister
had brought her new suitor Seneca with her to the celebration. In spite of his relationship with Livilla,
Seneca seemed attracted to Agrippina, comforting her with his fine words. She even enjoyed hearing Uncle Claudius’
stammer now, despite Messalina’s presence by his side, and was comforted by
Pomponia Graecina and her husband Aulus Plautius, who had known Caligula as a
child and had been her parents’ best friends.
They were among the remaining links to her past, which Tiberius could
not destroy: members of a tradition her father Germanicus fought to preserve.
A deepening, inexplicable calm fell
over her, followed by euphoria when she felt the child move in her womb. Until now, she had hated this thing growing
in her body. It seemed to be destroying
what was left of her short life. Now, as
she looked over at Seneca and also thought about her new friend, she felt a
bizarre association between the philosopher and her unborn child. In a letter, that may have been inspired by
Livilla, he had counseled her not to abort her son. Why had he cared so much, this total stranger, when she had
always thought her pregnancy to be a misfortune? Why had he called it a son and not a daughter, when she, herself,
had always thought of her child as an it?
And then there was Pallas, who had also
offered his services... Was he merely testing his charm on her? What need would such a man have with a
pregnant women, who hiding her disgrace.
How did this enigmatic man fit into her future, now that her brother’s
shadow had taken the place of her grandfather’s shadow in Rome?
******
As the festivities began, she reached
out, in a gesture of appreciation, to embrace all their hands and tell them how
glad she was they were here. Messalina,
the one eyesore in her path, also took her hand as was customary but refused to
meet her gaze.
The arrangement of an imperial banquet
was suppose to convey the hierarchy of Roman nobility: from the emperor,
himself, down to the lowliest knight.
Everyone, no matter what his or her station, was suppose to receive
hospitality and respect. But the new
emperor had deliberately altered the natural order of things and given his
guests different grades of food.
There were two lines of guests in
descending order of importance on each side of a low-lying table of food, drink,
and delicacies. This order, unlike
imperial banquets in the past, had nothing to do with rank or nobility. Not far from the emperor was a prostitute
who had serviced him in his youth. A
lowborn tribune sat across from Caligula, next to the sickly Gemellus, Tiberius
son, and a man wearing a costume covered with spun gold and silver thread. Following down the table were an assortment
of knights, senators, generals, and Caligula’s boyhood friends, who sat next to
their wives, concubines, or alone enjoying the very best cuisine and wine.
In between these places of honor and
those being punished for misdeeds, was a vast array of aristocrats and high
born patricians, like herself, who were puzzled by their shabby treatment, and
yet, like herself managed to take it in stride.
Beyond the midpoint, indicated by a
garland of thorns, without benefit of servants or even wine, the “undesirables”
sat. The cuisine had changed gradually
from dishes such as roast pork, stuffed mushrooms, and marinated peacock into
lessening grades of food and drink until reaching the zone of questionable
meats, rancid cheese, and a range of victuals unfit for a pig.
Close to the garland, but sharing some
of the fine food, where his sisters: Agrippina and Julia Livilla, while Drusilla,
Caligula’s youngest sister, sat at the most honored place by his side. Aulus and Pomponia, who also came from noble
families, were sitting even more closely to the midpoint, as were Uncle
Claudius, and Messalina, whose elbow was only inches from the thorns.
Caligula, while not being totally
cruel in their cases, had made his point clearly. They had better watch their step. They could fall from grace too.
Knowing Caligula’s perversity, his own
family was satisfied with their spots.
Although they weren’t served peacock or honeyed dormice, they were
allowed to eat a passable roast and at least drink wine. Many unfortunates down the line, who
discovered unappetizing meats and uncooked vegetables on their plates, saw this
as punishment for something they had done wrong. But Agrippina, Livilla, and Claudius had not slighted the
emperor. Nor had many of the other
guests who were served inferior grades of food.
Caligula had been especially hard on
those failing to applaud his accession.
It was, Agrippina explained to Pomponia, his way of putting them in
their place. The venerable Senator
Thrasyllus, who, after being seated at the very end of the table, discovered
table scraps and half-chewed beef on his plate. Scribonius Proculus, who like Thrasyllus failed to show proper
respect, was served fried dog. In her
brother’s irrational mind, Thrasyllus, Scribonius, and their “accomplices” were
being taught a lesson in humility. It
didn’t matter that he was making life-long enemies of these men. Caligula, however insane it seemed to
others, had to prove his point. That is
why he poisoned his father, Claudius believed.
That is why he would kill anyone that stood in his way.
Everyone must earn Caligula’s respect,
including the royal princesses of Rome. This was how the young tribune Massala, a notorious profligate,
won his place. This was also how
Agrippina and her sister, who would not willingly follow Drusilla’s example, won
theirs.
Domitia Lepida and Agrippina’s husband
had not even been invited to the feast.
Numerous notables of Rome, who were left off the list entirely, were
given written warnings to change their ways.
A list of consequences for their continued misbehavior included demotion
in rank, exile, and even death.
In Claudius’ opinion, Caligula erred
greatly in offending these men. He had
been especially foolish in threatening so many senators and knights.
Leaning craftily over Seneca’s lap,
Claudius had explained to them that Men such as Macro and Massala didn’t
matter. They were pigs and louts, just
the sort of men Caligula understood.
Nor were those patient adversaries, such as Thrasyllus or Scribonius, a
threat to him now.
“It will be someone out of nowhere,”
Pomponia announced boldly, “when he’s least expecting it, over a slight to a
patrician’s wife or a personal insult to a supposed friend. One day one of his subjects will end this charade!”
“Pray to the immortal gods, it happens
soon,” Agrippina followed Pomponia’s toast “before he grows any madder and before my son is born!”
******
Caligula had, as the night passed,
broken too many rules of etiquette and custom to be taken seriously even by his
friends.
He was an aberration for most
respectable Romans, such as Thrasyllus, Aulus, and Pomponia. To reprobates like Macro and Massala, he was
an eccentric who could be manipulated and cajoled.
As the banquet progressed or
digressed, Caligula was seen fondling his youngest sister Drusilla in a most
unbrotherly way. Drusilla’s low-cut
Eastern gown exposed her breasts. Her
long blond hair was braided in the German fashion, and she wore a barbarian’s
necklace of bears’ teeth around her neck.
For several moments, Caligula’s exhibitionist performance with his
scantily clad sister occupied all his attention.
He seemed to enjoy shocking everyone
with his newfound behavior.
“Surely,” a man next to Pomponia
whispered to his wife “Caligula’s illness has affected his mind. This is no way for an emperor to behave!”
“It must be true then,” she could here
his wife reply “... the emperor’s insane... He’s
indeed mad!”
******
Surrounding the banquet table were
countless servers and attendants, pouring wine, serving food, and wiping messy
hands. She could see her new acquaintance
Pallas talking to a group of entertainers lined up on the steps leading into
the hall. At his signal, a male and
female dancer, pantomiming Tiberius being berated by his mother Livia, began
performing to a disinterested audience, while the guests sat mumbling anxiously
among themselves.
Plainly a man of authority here,
Pallas, himself, was not one of the guests.
As if destiny had meant for her to see his departure, she could see his
tall leonine form disappear into the shadows of the columns. An inexplicable constriction in her throat
was followed a flutter in her chest as she contemplated the mysterious
stranger.
In the background, as he exited
through their ranks, waiting anxiously for their turn to perform, were
jugglers, who would toss burning torches, a pair of wrestlers, and a trio of
dwarfs holding shields and wooden swords.
Clearly no one was paying attention to
the satire of the past emperor. Their
nervous murmuring and darting glances demonstrated to Agrippina the fear they
felt for her brother: the new Emperor of Rome.
No one knew what to expect. Was
he as bad as the last emperor? Or was
he, after his dreadful illness, worse?
For most of them, who had only heard rumors about Caligula’s
eccentricities, he was an unknown quantity.
No one could possibly know yet, as did Agrippina, Claudius, and her
sisters, how dangerous he truly was.
This was, she thought, catching her breath, his first official appearance
in front of the aristocracy, and Caligula, who had insulted half the nobility
of Rome, was too interested in his own sister to care.
While the emperor remained distracted,
quiet conversation seemed in order.
Gradually now that it appeared he might leave them alone, those, who
were allowed to drink wine and not merely water, began to talk freely amongst
themselves about the games, the price of wheat, and the latest rumors
circulating in Rome.
Agrippina wondered fleetingly if they
would begin talking about her. Only a
few people had known about her pregnancy until she arrived at the banquet. Now, thanks to Caligula, everyone knew. Back then, however, only her husband
Domitius and his sister suspected the child she was caring might not be his. And they were absent.
The unlikely irony in her brother’s
decision not to invite these two now caused Agrippina to laugh giddily into her
wine.
“Caligula,” she said, curling her lip
“my hero!”
******
Slowly, as Caligula, himself grew
drunk, the occasion graduated from a subdued and untypical Roman banquet to a
feast, with laughter, camaraderie, and toasts.
To divert attention to himself now,
Macro, the praetorian prefect, who sat only a few places above her own, began
telling bawdy jokes, while slurping greedily from his cup. This foul-mouthed, evil-smelling man, who
seemed out of place at the in the palace, was now the second most powerful man
in Rome. Most of his listeners,
however, who were not sure if the emperor would find his vulgarity amusing,
pretended not to hear him or remained focused on their plates.
Messalina, Uncle Claudius’ bride, had
also grown talkative that night, but what she was about to say would awaken the
mad prince and set in motion a bizarre dialogue among the emperor and his
guests.
A rumor she had heard was now
mentioned as idle gossip to her friends.
The words “a new religious sect in Rome” and “a new god” caused
Caligula’s ears to perk up like a dog’s.
Messalina’s source of information, she announced smugly, was Pomponia
Graecina, the wife of Aulus Plautius, who had told it in confidence to a vestal
virgin, who happened to be Messalina’s friend.
To Pomponia’s dismay, all Messalina remembered of her report was that
they were cannibals and drank human blood.
As she elaborated on this theme, the
emperor’s eyes widened, he motioned for silence, and cupped his good ear. Pomponia, of course, shook her head at her
friend Agrippina, and made a face, while Messalina gave them lured details of
human sacrifice and bloody, orgiastic rites.
“Why, that’s not what I told her at
all.” she sputtered, bending over the banquet table to whisper in Agrippina’s
ear. “She deliberately twisted the words I told the vestal virgin—the deceitful little bitch! The followers of Christus believe that
eating meat is symbolic of Christus’ body and drinking wine is symbolic of his blood. They don’t eat people and drink their
blood!”
“Perhaps, its a form of symbolic
cannibalism.” Agrippina offered thoughtfully. “Why else would they want to eat
their god?”
“No! No! You don’t understand either!”
Pomponia cried, as her husband pulled her gently back to her seat. “They’re not
eating their god. They’re celebrating
Christus’ death and resurrection from the dead!”
Agrippina frowned at this abstraction
but patted Pomponia’s head.
“Poor dear Pomponia.” Livilla laughed
softly. “Too much reading has softened her brain!”
“C-Christus th-that’s Greek, isn’t
it?” Claudius looked away from his wine. “Was C-Christus from Greece?”
“No, indeed not!” Pomponia shook her
head emphatically. “Christus was a Jew!”
“Oh dear me!” Claudius sighed. “A troublesome
lot, those Jews!”
“Wait!” Messalina raised a pretty
hand. “She said was, not is.
The vestal virgin told me he’s alive, not dead, which doesn’t make sense
does it, if he was killed!”
“Listen, you little nincompoop.”
Pomponia growled challengingly. “I said that he was a Jew, who was crucified
and then resurrected from the dead!”
“Resurrected? What does that imply Pomponia?” Agrippina
could not help asking. “Is he a ghost or in a celestial form? Is he or is he not a Jew?”
“He’s universal now.” Pomponia
answered cryptically. “He’s the son of God.”
“God? ... What God?” Livilla asked,
sipping her wine. “Jupiter? Zeus? Neptune?
Now he’s only the son of a god.
Was he demoted along the way?”
“He has no name.” Pomponia explained with
exasperation. “He has no race... They say that he is both the father and the
son. He is also a ghost... Yet he is god!”
She shrugged helplessly. Everyone, except Seneca, shook their heads
and sat there staring at their plates.
“Interesting!… Quite fascinating!” he
murmured to Agrippina. “... A universal god, without a name, who is both father
and son, corporeal and incorporeal... who
is also a Jew!”
“Shut up, all of you!” Agrippina
blurted, as a servant poured her more wine. “Pomponia is entitled to her
beliefs!”
Agrippina
could not comprehend a god who died, rose from the dead, and was eaten
symbolically or any other way, especially if he was both a father and a son and
started off as a Jew. But she was
irritated by her sister’s remark and the argument that ensued. Pomponia deserved sympathy for her
foolishness not scorn.
“Poor dear, foolish Pomponia.” she
whispered to Livilla.
“...
Maybe she is growing soft in the
head!”
After waiting politely for Pomponia to
be resettled in her place, flashing her a dubious smile, and then bending
subtly over her sister’s lap, she asked Livilla’s new suitor Seneca, who seemed
to know everything, if this was all true, or was it just one of those “Jewish
things”.
Just when Seneca, who was already
showing great interest in the subject, was about to muster a reply and when
Pomponia seemed ready to explode, something very strange occurred in the room.
The emperor, who was already drunk,
was suddenly speaking yet had forgotten to demand silence from his guests. Caligula’s whiney and slightly nasal voice
was distinctive. He had not even
bothered rising to his feet. He, in
fact, appeared to be looking down Drusilla’s gown. Nevertheless, having heard portions of Messalina’s statement and
the conversation that followed, he began prying from those around him all the
existing facts of the new god: his origin, his magical feats, anything that
could be added to what the dimwitted Messalina just claimed.
Cupping his ear so no one but he would
hear, he received several reports, causing his sallow face to register both
humor and alarm. “He what?… He did
what?… Nonsense, even Jupiter can’t do that!” Often they were followed by a laugh, curse,
or utterance of awe. His close
associates realized, with growing concern, that Caligula was impressed by these
rumors. “By Jove,” the emperor
exclaimed at one point, “Rome has found itself a new god!”
In what Agrippina now categorized as
absolute public proof of her brother’s insanity, he announced, from a sitting
position, his own divinity. It was, as
everything he did lately, a totally spontaneous act, a bizarre introduction for
his subjects of the madness to come.
“You’re all wondering why I’ve
gathered you here.” he began solemnly. “Most of you are unfamiliar with my
secrets. Yet many of you, who knew me
as a child and young man, suspected my nature... It’s high time for the
doubters among you to acknowledge your beloved emperor for what he is. . Yes,
he too, like this Christus, has become a god!”
“God?
Did he just call himself a god?” Livilla whispered discretely into her
Agrippina’s ear.
“Yes,” Agrippina nodded, feeling
light-headed from her wine. “Our brother, who is now emperor of Rome, is now a
god. He is also quite mad!”
“What else is new?” Livilla snickered,
raising an empty cup.
“I don’t believe this!” Agrippina
heard Pomponia’s voice. “You’re all amused by this. This is not amusing. Tiberius’ purge was not amusing! I thought Romans treated other religions
with respect! Caligula is calling
himself a god! What sort of thing is that for the Emperor
of Rome to say?”
“Pomponia! Please shut up!”
Pomponia’s husband Aulus groaned.
To Pomponia Graecina, who resented
Messalina’s distortion of the facts and the cavalier attitude of this group, it
appeared as if Caligula was beginning a grotesque parody of Christus’ last
meal. She would explain this rite to
Agrippina months later, during a visit to Antium. Although Agrippina would never understand, she had been bedridden
and needed all the religion she could find.
Looking back now from the River Styx,
she realized that Pomponia had been more than merely interested in the new
sect. Gradually, after seeing two
tyrants take the throne, she had reached out for something in her mad
world. Some found wine; others, such as
Agrippina, found sex. But Pomponia had
found religion. It now kept her sanity
intact, Agrippina believed, but made it difficult to talk to her in a sensible
way. It had shocked her family to see
Pomponia lapse into what her husband Aulus called Jewish mysticism, and caused
her to lose favor in Tiberius’ court.
Now, after being absent from the imperial court for so many years, she
had selected an even more bizarre replacement for Roman religion.
******
But Pomponia was the only member of
the patrician class who had not condemned her for her past. Her toleration of other religions, had been
the same tolerance she gave her.
Those moments during Caligula’s
banquet, as Pomponia showed dismay, Agrippina was therefore alarmed. Aside from her sister and Uncle Claudius,
she was the only member of the nobility who showed her a modicum of
respect. She had been aware of
Pomponia’s interest in Eastern cults, but was surprised and dismayed then to
see anger, and not fear, register on her face.
Everyone else in Caligula’s immediate
vicinity was trying to gauge the emperor’s mood. Only a few of them, such as Livilla, Claudius and herself, had
known he was mad. No one was sure yet,
if he was even serious and if he had not said it in jest.
The further away from the emperor’s
couch they sat, however, the less chance it was that they actually heard. For the vast majority of his guests,
including Messalina and Claudius, who sat even further away and had not being
paying attention, as they should, it was a dangerous time... Who knew what this madman might do?
Seneca, keenly aware of his low status
now, felt Agrippina reach across her sister’s lap and squeeze his arm. He had not heard or suspected anything until
he looked squarely into Agrippina’s eyes.
“Get ready! React properly!” she
was saying with her gaze. Always wary
of her brother, she had heard enough of his preposterous claim to be prepared
to do him homage if that is what he required.
Pomponia too, who felt an angry torrent of whispers in her ear, nodded
submissively to her husband and bowed her head, as if in prayer.
Many of the others, however, including
Messalina, were still talking about the same topic or sitting idly on their
cushions munching their food.
Finally, as she, Seneca, and Livilla
fearfully clasped hands, Caligula, the mad emperor, rose up dramatically and
looked quietly around the room. Uncle
Claudius, who had not seen the motion, was sprinkled with wine that moment and
Messalina was sprayed with the wine in Caligula’s mouth. Several guests, who sat even further away
from the emperor and continued chatting or failed to look up in time, shrank in
terror when his shadow fell across their plates. He began kicking them out of the way, spilling goblets and
crunching fingers, and occasionally booting a senator or knight in his
path. By then, he had crossed the
garland, stared menacingly down at the “undesirables” on the other side, and
planted himself atop an untouched tray of mutton.
After calling for silence in the room,
he posed a toast to the new god Christus, whom he considered a junior partner
to Jupiter and Zeus. His plan had been
to place a statue of himself in the Jewish temple in Jerusalem. Now that this upstart god had dared show his
face in Rome, it was all the more important to show these stiff-necked Jews who
was in charge. It became difficult, as
Caligula talked, though, to know whether he was for or against Christus, since,
in spite of such threats, he appeared to admire the new god.
Several more guests added to his
sketchy knowledge of the new sect.
Among the claims, which Agrippina found hard to believe, was the
assertion by Pomponia that he had walked on water and brought a dead man back
to life. A strange glow came into
Caligula’s pale eyes. At first he
laughed at this and then threw his goblet at Pomponia, barely missing her head.
An excited inquiry by the emperor
began, with Pomponia and her frightened husband Aulus being suddenly moved to
the place of honor by his side. Macro,
for his tasteless jokes, was now ordered to take their space, while his wife
was allowed to stay where she was. He
no longer cared that his uncle almost put Aulus to death or that Pomponia
thought he was insane. Several guests,
who wondered if Pomponia did not believed in this outlandish cult herself, now
grumbled in amazement and dismay.
So far, in the night’s festivities,
Caligula had shown an incestuous fondness for his baby sister and proclaimed
himself a god. Now it appeared as if he
believed in this new sect, himself.
Unfortunately, however, Agrippina
later complained to Seneca, Caligula talked only about Christus’ miracles that
night—feats he vowed to one day outdo.
Except for the sect’s alleged cannibalism, which fascinated Caligula
very much, Pomponia had not had a chance to explain what the followers of
Christus believed.
According to Seneca, who talked to
actual members of the sect, a band of outcasts and rabble, who worshiped a
crucified Jew, claimed that they could receive eternal life if they prayed to
Christus and offered sacrifices to his father, an invisible god. The misconception about their cannibalism
and bloodlust, which Pomponia had tried to refute, contrasted with Seneca’s
belief that they lived a purer lifestyle than his fellow stoics or the Roman
Jews.
They claimed that believers who did
good deeds were rewarded with paradise and evildoers were punished with
damnation for their misdeeds. This
notion was familiar to Agrippina, since Virgil, her favorite poet, had spoken
of an afterlife too. It was how the new
sect defined its afterlife that troubled her now... It was that one terrible
word that had no counterpart in her life... until now.
******
As she listened to the slosh of his
oars, she wondered where the Ferryman was taking her. Were they going to Tartarus, spoken of in Virgil’s Aeneid, where,
after a thousand years, the god’s gave the sinner a second chance? Or Perhaps it would be like the Greek’s
Hades or Egyptian Land of the Dead. She
didn’t expect to be rewarded for her lifestyle. A certain amount of punishment seemed in order, though nothing as
bad as the Christus’ hell.
In the Christus’ heaven, Seneca was
told, you didn’t eat, fornicate, or own fancy clothes. It was probably a frightful bore, she
imagined, but much better than Plautia’s philosophy that you live, die, and
then you become either worm fodder or fine particles of ash blown in the wind.
Her grandmother Antonia claimed she
had been a depraved child. It had been
fortunate for her that Caligula’s misdeeds outshone her own. She had been faithless and
mean-spirited. She had dishonored her
parents, performed incest with her brother, and committed adultery with
countless men.
But she had not committed murder nor
had she ever mocked the gods or forgotten who she was... She, the daughter of
Germanicus, a Julio-Claudian, and sister to the Emperor of Rome deserved no
reward now that she was dead, but neither did she deserve the maximum sentence for
her short, ill-spent life.
She did not relish being in an
afterlife filled with criminals and outcasts, especially when it did not allow
sex, riches, and fine food and drink.
Perhaps, after her sentence was over in Tartarus, she would be allowed
to visit Christus’ heaven. By then, it
seemed reasonable to Agrippina, there should be some respectable people there
and more to do. They couldn’t all be
misfits, lawbreakers, and slaves.
Surely, Christus wouldn’t forbid wine.
Idle thoughts diverted her mind as
they moved toward the light. Was it the
celestial glow of Elysium, once explained to her by her mother... Or was it
from Tartarus, promised by Antonia to make her behave. What could lure the Ferryman across the
Styx: destiny, ... love of adventure... the will of the gods? Was his shadowy visage unseeable, because he
was a ghost, himself, permanently condemned to carry the dead... or damned
...
Was his darkness cast by the lack of light or purest evil? . . Was he merely a
servant of Minos, King of the Underworld, an unnamed shade serving an
unknowable god... Or was he the one Seneca once said was opposite to Christus
in every way: ... Lucifer, the prince of hell?
******
She was told by Plautia that the
followers of Christus were atheists, because they did not believe in the
gods. And yet, according to her friend
Seneca, they placed faith above everything: wealth, children, and even love. Faith, they claimed, led to salvation, and
disbelief led to a place called hell.
Reflecting back now, it seemed strange
to Agrippina that someone as irreligious as Plautia would make such a
claim. It also struck her as
significant that Seneca, whose philosophy closely paralleled the new sect,
found no fault in it at all. And yet,
the same apologist said that it lacked the logic necessary for a Stoic such as
himself.
Like other religions permitted by
Rome, the afterlife, explained by Seneca, which she could not comprehend, was
forever, and this meant that she would be forever damned. Forever, she thought with a shudder, was a
long, long time.
The Christus’ heaven was beginning to
sound better to her they drew closer to the light.
Anything sounded better than hell.
There, she would find no in-between
state of mindless bliss, as in the Mourning Fields, or place of rehabilitation
for lost souls found in Tartarus, where after a thousand year sentence, the
sinner was reprieved. After death, if
the soul didn’t make it to heaven, it was damned... forever... the point where
she seemed headed now.
A hysterical laugh escaped Agrippina’s
parched throat. She began weeping
softly under her breath.
“Give her water Claudia.” Flavia
directed in the outer world.
“She’s having another dream.” Felix
observed, touching her hand. “She screams, she laughs, and now finally she
cries. If only she could wake up!”
The memory of the new sect, which had
seemed so silly to her before, now filled her with a dread greater than her
fear of death. Her normally carefree
mind was shaken by the vista ahead: damnation... forever and ever... with no
second chance.
In her chambers, while lying on her
bed, Agrippina’s lips began trembling again and she mumbled unintelligibly
under her breath. The midwives began
sponging her off again. Felix marveled
at how beautiful she was even in the shadow of death. Flavius, who had tried everything to save her life, however, was
afraid she might live. He had seen the
worst of Agrippina in this house. In
addition to her obvious fear, her delirious confessions, he believed, came from
a guilt-ridden mind.
In her dream world, though it sounded
like gibberish outside, she was speaking to the Ferryman, asking him whether
the light at the end of the tunnel was shining from Tartarus or the other
place... a place of fire and brimstone, pain and torment ... forever and ever
and ever... Such a dreadful, unRoman word!
While looking at the glow, which now
radiated warmth as well as light, she thought she saw the outline of Tiberius
and Sejanus among the damned, along with many other relatives and friends. They had not been dancing but wreathing as
strips of pork in Christus’ fire. She
was certain that the shadowy Ferrymen was not taking her to the Roman Tartarus,
Greek Hades or the Egyptian Land of the Dead, where she at least would not
suffer for eternity and be given a second chance.
She felt her throat constrict with
fear. She was beyond tears, and yet her
mouth opened mutely in preparation for a scream. All along, she realized with horror, as she had marveled at the
radiance, she had been floating toward a wall of flame. Her first impression had been right; soon
she would be joining her grandfather, Plautia, and all the other Romans who
defied God. A tortured and agonized
scream now filled Agrippina’s chambers, as she was ferried to hell.
(Chapter
Four – Caligula’s Blessing)
The
sudden shriek from their mistress brought them all to their feet. For a terrible moment, as Flavius checked
her pulse and listened to her chest, the nurses wrung their hands and Dora
knelt again in an attitude of prayer.
Felix, who had fallen asleep in his chair, stood gaping into Dora’s
gown.
“Am I asleep? Is this a dream?” he began rubbing his eyes.
“Wha-what’s wrong? Will the mistress finally die?” the nurses
murmured, their eyes filling with tears.
“She’s still unconscious.” Flavius
observed shakily. “. . . For a second I thought she was dead!” “Felix!
Wake up! The problem is over
here!” he called brusquely, as Dora continued to pray. “Hand me that vile on the tray.” he directed
the apprentice. “I’ll administer a drop of this—just one this time Felix, while
you prop open her mouth. Check her
tongue this time, make sure she doesn’t swallow it.” “You Claudia and you Minerva, get ready to sponge her off! Dora, my dear, get out the way!”
After shooing his apprentice away
afterwards then looking carefully into Agrippina’s eyes, Flavius rose up slowly
from the bed, a guarded smile on his face, and motioned for his staff to step
into the hall. Since Agrippina was
unconscious, the gesture was out of habit rather than necessity. The nurses were convinced, at this point,
that Agrippina would not last through the night.
It had been a long, grueling session
for everyone, and the crisis had not yet passed. With the exception of a tray of cold rolls and fruit from the
kitchen and finishing off the sweet meats in Agrippina’s room, they had eaten sparsely. They would probably not find their own beds until Agrippina was
out of danger, if she lived at all.
“Well,” Flavius announced wearily “if
nothing else, Agrippina’s death knell woke us up!”
“She certainly has powerful lungs!”
Felix exclaimed, standing as close to Dora as he could.
“Her breathing remains ragged, and
she’s feverish. But she’s young.” the
physician looked into the wet nurse’s eyes. “Her heart’s strong, and her pulse
has slowed down. If the gods are
generous and listen to our Dora’s prayer, she
will live!”
“The gods are good!” Minerva bowed.
“She’s suffered enough.” Claudia
clasped her hands.
“I prayed for her soul, not her
health.” Dora said faintly.
“At any rate, whichever god is
protecting our mistress,” Flavius raised his palms to the ceiling “Agrippina’s
still alive! She’s too spirited too die!
But I wish, for all our sakes, she had been born mute!”
“We all heard what she said.” he now
looked into the nurses’ eyes. “The question are ‘who else knows?’ and ‘whom are
you going to tell?’ Was the nosy cook
Astra or feebleminded chamberlain Didymus eavesdropping in the hall? If it turns out that Ursos or Archelaeus,
and not Domitius, fathered her son, Agrippina’s in trouble. If Caligula or Domitius find out, it could
mean Agrippina and her infant’s life.
Most importantly for you the nurses, wet nurse, apprentice, and myself,
it would mean death or at the very least self-imposed exile until Domitius,
himself, is dead and a new emperor sits on the throne. There’s no telling what her demented brother
or sadistic husband might do!”
“Enough!” he waved his hand. “Claudia
and Minerva, I want you to take a break now.
Get a little rest and something more to eat, but stand alert until I
send Gracchus to fetch you back for your turns. Above all keep this to yourselves! Don’t say a word!”
“Mums the word!” Minerva said,
pinching her lips.
“You can trust us sir!” Claudia
sounded out of breath.
In a fatherly way, he gave each of the
woman a pat, motioning for Dora to accompany them down the hall. He did not trust the nurses to keep a
secret, especially Claudia, whose husband ran a tavern in town. As they both departed, however, the wet
nurse shook her head, her fulsome lips drawing into a smile. He noticed, as he followed Felix and Dora
back into the room that the two nurses broke into excited murmurs as they
scurried down the hall, and he wished that the wet nurse could have acted as
his spy.
“Let us hope” he whispered to Felix
“Claudia doesn’t tell Proculus, that loudmouthed Gaul, because he will tell his
patrons, who will tell all their friends in Antium
and Rome!”
“Can it be,” he murmured to Dora then,
“that I’m making too much out of Agrippina’s babbling? You’ve seen that boy up close.” “Tell me my dear” he touched her lovely arm
“did he not look just like his father’s son?”
“Yes, like Domitius a little. . . but
also a little like Ursos and his son Romulus too.” She answered, self-consciously dropping her gaze.
“Romulus?” Flavius gasped, pulling
them both back into the hall. “Ursos’ has a red-haired
son?”
“He was born shortly before Agrippina
went into labor.” Dora explained softly. “I found out from Linus, my brother,
who was sneaking in late last night.”
“Merciful gods!” Flavius cried,
covering his eyes. “They might as well be twins! Why wasn’t I told? I could
have helped!” “Tell me” he ventured,
peeking through his fingers “What do
they look like, mother and child. . . Is it a close match between the two? Brown eyes or blue eyes? Roman, Eastern, or barbarian features?”
“Well,” Dora admitted reluctantly “. . . Lydia’s my friend. . . Her parents
were from Palestine. . . She has black hair and brown eyes like Agrippina, and,
like the mistress, is tall. She doesn’t
look anything like her son!”
“Most of the women in this house have black hair!” Felix said with a frown.
“What does being tall prove?”
Flavius, after shaking his head at
Felix, studied the expression on Dora’s face.
He remembered the anxiety in Claudia and Minerva’s eyes. Felix, who could care less about Agrippina’s
state of mind, was merely irritated with this line of questioning, but Dora, as
had been the nurses, was becoming alarmed by what she heard.
“The more alike are the two sets of
parents,” he explained gravely “the greater the danger for Ursos and his family
and everybody else.” “. . . I was wondering” he followed, lost a moment in
Dora’s gaze “You said he has red hair, like the other infant, but does Ursos’
child look like Agrippina’s son?”
“Well,” she bit her lip, her green
eyes unblinking, a nervous smile playing on her face “they’re both very
wrinkled sir. You know how newborn
infants are. But Romulus appeared to
have blue eyes. I never thought to
examine his neck and limbs or look at the exact shape of his nose. Would you like me to ask Gracchus to find
out?”
“No, no! Great Zeus no!” he shook his head in horror. “I don’t want to
know, not yet! What would I do if Gracchus confirmed my
fears? Flee like a rabbit? Quiver like a dormouse?” “Don’t worry my dear,” he tried to sound
calm “I’m making too much of this. I’m
just very tired! I wish Agrippina would
wake up and clear up all our doubts!”
“I will pray for her sir.” she
mumbled, as she reached down into the baby’s crib. “. . . I will pray for us all!”
As Dora’s cleavage lent itself to his
view, Flavius
marveled
at this vision of loveliness, who worried about Agrippina’s soul.
“When exactly, my dear, did this
disaster unfold?” he found himself whispering, as the wet nurse took her place.
“Well, . . . I`m not sure.” she again
paused. “If he was born only a short while after midnight, which is when
Agrippina went into labor, that would make it the same day!”
“There I go again,” Flavius chided
himself “acting like an old fool!”
Visibly shaken by this news, the
physician motioned for silence in the room, although he had been the last one
to speak. “This information must never
enter Agrippina’s ears”, he whispered into Felix’s ear.
Felix, who was too tired to care, felt
only mild concern. Exhaustion had
dulled his senses so much he just stood there now smiling and blinking at
Flavius as if the physician had just exchanged some gossip or told him to
perform a task.
Felix, who was only seventeen years
old (the same age as Dora), had much to learn about Agrippina. He was still a child, thought Flavius, protected
by himself as Germanicus once protected him, but without the power his long
dead friend once had against jackals such as Caligula and Domitius, men who
would have been put in their places if Germanicus had ascended the throne.
Stabbed with this thought, Flavius
watched abstractedly as the wet nurse settled onto a couch. On one side of the room sat Dora, who had
been a mere scullery maid, a slave who had barely known her parents and whose
common law husband abandoned her with a child.
On the other side of the room, lie another young woman, having
everything at her beck and call, whose father could have been the emperor of
Rome. If only Agrippina had turned out like her! Flavius could not help wondering now how the
noble Germanicus could be the father of such a brood. Both Nero and Drusus, his two oldest sons, had been incorrigible
throughout their short lives. Caligula,
who Claudius told him in confidence had poisoned his father’s food, had grown
up to be a thoroughly depraved man.
Among the three daughters—Agrippina, Drusilla, and Julia Livilla, only
Germanicus’ youngest child Livilla, whom he had never known, seemed to be
normal. Both Agrippina and Drusilla had
unnatural sex with Caligula and had been caught by Claudius’ mother Antonia
several times sneaking out of his room.
Though the children of slaves
themselves, the saintly Dora and mild-mannered Felix were everything a daughter
and son should be.
“Poor Germanicus!” he spoke mutely to
himself “What did your virtue avail you!
We live in such a crooked age!”
Running trembling fingers through his
prematurely graying hair, Flavius sank forlornly down beside Agrippina’s
bed. Staring blankly into space, he
continued to murmur under his breath.
“Agrippina. . . Agrippina. . . In saving you and your son, we might have
condemned ourselves and everyone in this
house!”
Even though it would prove to be a
serious problem for the child, he had half hoped she would die. Although he felt guilty for such thinking,
he still had misgivings about what lie ahead.
In many ways, he now believed, Agrippina was, as much as her brother and
husband, a threat to everyone attending her infant’s birth.
Over the years, he recalled, Agrippina
had shown the typical flaws of her dynasty: avarice, self-love, perversity, and
an inability for normal relationships with other human beings. But there was a reason for her behavior,
Flavius had to admit. She had not
simply been spoiled to death as had her older brothers or born mentally
deranged as Caligula. She and her younger
sister Drusilla had suffered greatly after their mother and father’s deaths.
Agrippina had grown so bitter over their parents’ murders that she
trusted no one, while Drusilla, who had adapted to Caligula’s madness, was now
a member of his court. Agrippina’s
ordeals, under Antonia’s harsh care and in the shadow of Tiberius reign, had
shaped her personality and made her strong, while driving Caligula and Drusilla
insane. Her treatment by her brother
and her husband Domitius had forever warped her perspective toward men. And yet Flavius found it difficult now to
excuse or even pity the princess, considering the danger she had placed them
in. Livilla had also suffered such
losses and felt the same pains. Dora
had been a wretched slave all her life.
Had he not been abused as a slave and had not most Felix’s tribe been
massacred by Rome. . . Where is the warping there?, he wondered. . . Where is
the depraved personality, unable to share wholesome love or perform an
unselfish act?
Agrippina had always been selfish and
self-serving, but lately she had become paranoid, even neurotic about her
well-being. Several times during her
pregnancy, she had begged him shamelessly to help her abort her child. Flavius, like Seneca, however, did not
believe in infanticide and had an old fashion disdain for abortion as
well. In light of her previous
behavior, he had not been shocked at her persistence, only disgusted. He
knew that deep down in Agrippina’s craven heart, she was simply
afraid. Doubting the bloodline of her
son, she had good reason to be, with a suspicious husband and Caligula on the
throne!
Now, Flavius thought grimly, too make
matters worse, her son might have a red-haired stepbrother who was born on the
same day!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Felix, his carefree apprentice, had no
such misgivings. He trusted his mentor
for everything. After seating himself
as close to the wet nurse as possible, he began napping fitfully in his
chair. The chance that he might watch
her pull her lovely breasts out to nurse kept him in a twilight state of
sleep. That’s all that seemed to matter
to him right now.
For the physician, who had been awake
since Agrippina’s messenger tapped on his chamber door, sleep would not come
until Caligula had blessed her child.
This morning, after Agrippina had talked in her sleep, he had that much
more reason to stay alert. No one knew
for sure when the emperor would arrive.
And yet he, too, in the midst of it all and for his own reasons, was
drawn to Dora. She was a balm for his
frayed nerves and a constant delight, lighting up this dreary room each time he
looked at her or heard her speak. After
all these months, he had finally spoken to her. Her voice, he fancied, was like an Aegean breeze in this dreary
room. Her eyes, like the blue waters
off his native Greece, were timid as most slaves and yet they seemed filled
with a mysterious light.
Dora, he had learned, had lost her
parents during Tiberius’ reign. There
was no telling where she was from. She
could be of royal blood or the daughter of a whore. Unlike himself, she had been too young to remember. Her husband, soon after her son was born,
had ran off, never to be seen again.
Born into freedom as he once was, she had nevertheless been spared the
agony of remembering all she had lost.
But she had also been robbed of her childhood—that period in Flavius’
life that gave meaning to his feelings now.
The fact that an orphan, who never knew her parents and had been
forsaken by her spouse, was such a natural mother, filled the physician with
awe.
In spite of her drudgery and the added
burden of nursing Agrippina’s son, she never complained. She seemed to contain a natural buoyancy
that even Agrippina could not stir. Nothing
bothered her, and she acted as if she loved this wretched world, in spite of
her plight. He could see it in her eyes
and the way she smiled: an inner peace and secret joy.
Dora, he was also aware, believed in
Christus, a god mostly of slaves and criminals, who forgave men’s sins and
offered eternal life to the world.
Perhaps this was the mystery he felt in her presence. It could very well be the serenity he saw in
her gaze.
He wondered if such a god could
forgive him for what he was thinking now.
His pity for his mistress was tempered by doubt, distrust, and
dismay. As he looked down at her, he
was reminded of his dilemma as a physician. . . What would he do if the infant
was not Domitius’ son? . . . More importantly what would Domitius do? In spite of her husband’s reputation,
however, it was not Domitius who worried Flavius most; it was Caligula,
Agrippina’s insane brother, who might want to perform the infanticide himself!
Against his sense of duty now, his
desire to abandon Agrippina grew as he watched her sleep. Did this woman, who wouldn’t comfort her
newborn son, deserve better? Her
troubled past, much of which was her own fault, was leading her into an uncertain
future. Not only was it coming back to
haunt her, but it was threatening her life and everyone else sharing her
secrets in this room.
In spite of the silence in Rome, he
knew the storm would come. As it had
come in Tiberius’ reign, it would come during Caligula’s reign too. The new emperor, if he remained true to
form, would be devious and cunning like a serpent, while remaining hopelessly
deranged. Already, during these
critical hours, there could be a spy reporting from her house. With Caligula on the throne, there would be,
he must explain to the complaisant Felix, a bleak future here for them even if
she lived, especially after what they found out in her room.
Everyone, including Dora, the new wet
nurse, could be in danger if Ursos, the gardener or Archelaeus, the wine
merchant, both of whom had red hair, had fathered Agrippina’s son. It would be better if it was Archelaeus,
since he was usually out of town. But
it was also far less likely that it was him, especially with all the slaves at
Agrippina’s command. Ursos, who had
been acting strangely, was not only one of her slaves, but he was also husband
to Lydia, a cook in Agrippina’s kitchen, who, like Agrippina, had given birth
to a red-haired son.
To make matters more worse to Flavius
was the fact that Romulus parent’s had the same coloring as Agrippina and
Domitius, and both babies were born the same day.
The more that Flavius thought about
these facts and Dora’s own misgivings, the more frightened he became. What if the emperor saw Ursos or—the gods
forbid!—his newborn son and, knowing his sister’s behavior, summed it all up
himself? Could it be possible that the
capricious Caligula might consider this all a great joke? It would, after all, remove an imagined
threat to his throne. On the other
hand, the emperor might become enraged at having a slave for a brother-in-law,
especially with a look-a-like son, and have them all put to death.
“Why,” Flavius whispered to himself
“did she have to talk in her sleep? Why
couldn’t she have dreamed of a less controversial subject in her life? . . .
Why did the gardener and Agrippina’s sons both have red-hair?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As Dora broke into a gentle smile, the
physician was beguiled by her charm, and his thought were not just for
himself. What a match this would be for
Felix he told himself: that handsome, golden headed youth coupled with that
auburn-haired goddess across the room!
Frivolous though it seemed, it appeared to be a perfect match. He didn’t want his apprentice to wind up a
bachelor like himself. He would, after
all his years of procrastination, adopt him, make him his heir, and arrange for
Dora to be Felix’s wife. He would
someday have grandchildren and a family.
He would not end his life as a lonely, unhappy old man. . . He might
even, if Felix is not interested, marry
her himself!
As he savored such a thought, more
delicious to his mind than Falernian wine, just when the nurses were tiptoeing
back into the room, the child let out a bleat that brought both the wet nurse
and apprentice to their feet. Slowly
now, Flavius rose up from Agrippina’s bed, rubbing his overwrought eyes, a
smile still fixed on his haggard face.
He had begun to doze off while planning Dora’s life.
Agrippina’s eyes were open. She did not even ask where her infant
was. She watched, in a bland mood, as
Dora suckled him awhile, changed his diaper, and then placed him in her
arms. Agrippina seemed happy just to be
alive and murmured her thanks to the haggard team. Soon, as Flavius expected, after a quiet reunion with the living,
she lapsed into a healthy torpor and resumed her slumber throughout the night.
Her fever had broken. She would not die. But a long convalescence lie ahead, during which Caligula, her
brother, must find it in himself to bless her child.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For another twelve hours, Flavius and his
staff took turns monitoring Agrippina’s health. Her pupils, heartbeat, and pulse were checked periodically, as
were her stitches and the swelling
remaining
in her womb. There was definite
improvement. The danger had passed as
had the shadow this morning in the room.
Occasionally, she would awaken for a few sips of water or a slurp of
broth. Then she would fall back asleep,
a faint smile on her face.
Dora was totally responsible for the
infant, whose only interest it seemed was to suckle her fulsome breasts. Felix had become envious of the child, his
fondness for the wet nurse growing by the hour. Both Minerva and Claudia had worked tirelessly to bring her
temperature down, while Flavius potion was given credit when her fever actually
began to plunge.
Agrippina’s progress was also due to
her ironclad will and the state of her health before her pregnancy began. According to the physician, it was Caligula
who had always been the sickly one in Germanicus’ household. Agrippina’s robust, Mediterranean pallor
always had a healthy tan on it. Her
promiscuous lifestyle, Flavius had told Felix in confidence, far from making
her idle and lazy, had kept her in shape.
It had made her energetic and kept her voluptuous anatomy supple and
lean. But now, in spite of her strong
constitution, she looked haggard and pale.
Her long black hair, matted with perspiration had to be washed and
combed, her sweaty body had to be perfumed and placed in a new gown in order to
be presentable for the guest arriving that afternoon.
Finally, after round-the-clock
observation, Agrippina was beginning to exhibit her old self. She was demanding, and she was rude. For most of the morning, her slaves attempted
to make her especially presentable, and even Flavius and his staff were
ordered
to tidy up her room.
Ultimately, worn out by her newfound
energy, Agrippina decided to take a nap.
Soon afterwards, as her attendants dozed on couches around her bed, the
word came to Flavius by special courier that the emperor and his entourage were
arriving to greet the new member of the Julio-Claudian gens.
“There here!” Flavius whispered to
Felix and the others. “Stand lively boy!
Claudia, gently awaken the mistress.
You Dora, hold the child until they enter her door.
Dispensing with the usual custom of
first laying the child before his father on the floor, Dora, now permanently
assigned as Agrippina’s wet nurse, stood by her bed with the child swaddled in
her arms. Because Agrippina refused to
nurse her own child, Dora had been elevated from a mere scullery slave to an
important position in her house. Not
only would she act as a source of constant nourishment for the child but she
had begun to forge a bound with him that would last the rest of his life.
Flavius now joined Minerva and Claudia
in shaking Agrippina awake. Meanwhile,
as Felix looked nervously on, Claudia went looking for Agrippina’s husband and
sister in the hall. Almost immediately
as if the young nurse had seen a ghost, she ran back into the room, motioning
frantically behind herself toward the door.
“There here already!” she cried, out of breath.
“.
. . Caligula! Domitius! Drusilla!
The entire court!”
Hearing them all gasp now, just when
she opened her sleep-drenched eyes, Agrippina’s benumbed mind wondered if there
something wrong. When she looked up at
her visitors that moment, she almost passed out.
There, beside her half-witted uncle
Claudius, stood none other than her brother, emperor Caligula, himself. Behind him stood her husband and her sisters
Drusilla and Livilla, while poor frightened Claudia was lost somewhere in the
room. Felix had also disappeared from
view, while Flavius, her faithful physician, stood by her bed, his medical bag
ready, a dour look on his face.
Suddenly, as if protocol outweighed
even her own life, the older woman pulled the infant from Dora’s arms, and
placed him in a basin on the floor.
“It’s the custom.” she said lamely as
Agrippina’s family looked on.
“I’m sorry mistress,” Flavius
whispered into her ear “I wanted to warn you before they all came into the
room! I know you want him to behave,
but Minerva wants you to look good in Caligula’s eyes!”
“It’s all right Flavius.” she said to
the physician. “You and Minerva must follow Roman custom, especially with the
emperor in our house.”
“Well, well!” Caligula grinned down at
the child. “what’s the little bastard’s name?”
“Begging your pardon Caesar.”
Agrippina’s eyes narrowed to slits. “He has his fathers hair and eyes. We must wait for nine days for the child to
be named!”
“Nonsense,” Caligula cackled “all
babies have blue eyes, and anyone can have red hair. As the emperor, I can name him any time I want!”
“Very well, my emperor-brother.”
Agrippina said, as Flavius placed a pillow under her head. “Let us ignore
tradition, but let his father give him his name. He won’t deny his own
flesh!”
After waiting for the emperor to move
out of his way, Domitius, the infant’s bronze bearded father stepped forward,
wiped his mouth, and stood there at a distance looking down at the child.
“Closer, my husband.” she motioned
feebly. “You accused me of adultery, remember?
You even had my freedman Marcus Quintillus put to death. . . But this
little monster is yours, not
his. No one on earth has that shade of
red on his head, except the beast who planted his seed in my womb!”
“I hope my sister is speaking in
jest.” Livilla uttered boldly. “It’s not the baby’s fault his father’s a pig!”
“Look at the little beast!” his Aunt
Drusilla exclaimed, daintily cupping her mouth. “He looks like an ape!”
As the nearsighted uncle Caligula
peaked around his brother-in-law, he motioned for the others to come close.
“No my sisters,” he broke into guffaws
“he looks like Marcus Quintillus, not Domitius. He’s too ugly to
resemble an ape!”
“But look at his hair!” Agrippina
challenged them. “Look at his arms, legs, and eyes!”
“Yes,” Livilla nodded thoughtfully. “I
see what you mean.”
“His legs are bowed.” Drusilla
giggled. “His neck it too thick. He
looks nothing like a Julian or even a human
being!”
“Now-now,” Caligula said through his
laughter “let’s be fair. . . Ho! Ho!
Let’s let the father decide. As
a beast, himself, he’s got an eye for such things.” “If he be your son,” he directed Domitius slyly “pick him up in
accordance with Roman custom and acknowledge him at once!”
Fearing that Agrippina’s infant was
falling victim to another one of the emperor’s traps, Claudius felt compelled
at last to speak. Unfortunately, for
Agrippina and Domitius, it only made the event more humorous in Caligula’s
mind.
“Th-th-there’s n-n-no m-m-mistaking
th-th-that n-n-nose and th-th-th-those h-h-handsome l-l-limbs.” he managed to
say. “He-he-he’s D-D-Domitius’ n-n-natural s-s-son!”
As Domitius stood there making up his
mind, everyone, except Agrippina and her husband began to laugh. Even grim faced Flavius could not help
breaking into snickers awhile.
“W-w-well D-D-Domitius?” the emperor
mimicked Claudius, slapping his brother-in-law’s back. “What’s it to be? Is he a bastard? Or am I looking at the real thing?”
“Yes, . . he’s my son.” Domitius
admitted finally. “I’ve made a terrible mistake!”
“Mistake? You call this a mistake?” Agrippina spat angrily. “You almost
beat me to death! You never wanted a son!”
“I think apologies are in order.”
Caligula gave Domitius a menacing look. “My sister needs a beating every once
in awhile, but I think you’ve gone too far!”
Domitius’ face turned ashen now, his
knees shaking so badly he thought he would collapse. “She’s delirious.” he said in a croaking voice. “I never beat her
Caesar. I swear by the gods, I wouldn’t harm my wife!”
“All right, stop groveling.” Caligula
motioned magnanimously. “Pick up the little ape. That’s right adoptive father, give her little bastard a
smooch!” “You uncle Clau-Clau-Claudius”
he added defiantly “shall give him his
name!”
A gasp arose from the group. Not only was the emperor suspending the
traditional waiting period, he was actually suggesting that Claudius, the
stammering imbecile, provide his name!
At this point, Agrippina, herself, managed to laugh. Flavius and Minerva, who had tried sticking
to tradition, threw up their hands in despair.
As Domitius bent down, fastened his
monstrous hands around Nero’s sides and lifted him up into the air, he admitted
again for Caligula’s benefit, as if he were shouting it to the gods, that he
was the boy’s father and that the child was, in spite of his ugliness and
ape-like features, his rightful heir.
Recalling from the past now his father’s booming voice, Nero let out a
squeal that startled everyone in the room.
He cried so furiously, in fact, that Agrippina, Claudius, and Livilla
feared for his life. Caligula, they
remembered, recently had Tiberius’ own grandson Gemellus beheaded for his
nighttime coughs. The emperor hated
sharp and unnatural sounds and the look on his face told Agrippina that her
son’s bleating cries had pushed him close to the edge.
“Dora, take back the child.” she whispered,
yanking the wet nurse’s sleeve. “I’ll give you a hundred sesterces if you can
make him be quiet!”
“Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus!”
Claudius suddenly cried with inexplicable clarity. “That shall be his name!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With that outburst and Dora’s nipple
in the infant’s mouth, the mad emperor’s attention was diverted: first to
Dora’s lovely bust and then to Claudius’ frightened face.
“I meant his personal name, you
idiot!” he growled beneath his breath. “We still have to wait for his
Purification Rites. How dare you give
him all three!”
“B-b-but I-I-I th-thought y-you
sus-suspended pro-protocol.” Claudius replied miserably.
“I was jesting!” he thumped his
uncle’s head. “Even my stupid sisters could see
that! I meant something like
Priapus or Agamemnon—not real names, but silly names, you fool! The child is a bastard, can’t you see? He doesn’t deserve a title or three names! I
don’t want another heir to my throne!”
Claudius sighed deeply. As a scolded puppy, he looked unhappily at
the floor. For a brief moment, Livilla,
who stood next to Claudius, pitied her poor uncle, wondering what her brother
might do. But as with all mad emperors,
Caligula’s anger faded as he looked around the room. Rarely could he concentrate on just one thing. For a moment, he yawned expansively then
watched Dora suckle the child. A
hideous grin now spread across his impish face. Once again, however, he refocused on the child as if it were an
object of scorn, saying venomously to himself “He’s too ugly for such a name!”
“Marcus has a good sound.” Drusilla
offered sweetly.
“This is nonsense” Livilla frowned.
“and in very bad taste! Poor Marcus was
dark; Lucius is fair. Marcus had black
hair and eyes, while Lucius looks splotchy and pale. Lucius’ ears, nose, and chin make him look almost Greek!”
“Livilla’s right, my pet, Marcus won’t
do.” Caligula looked over at Claudius. “Perhaps a Greek merchant or philosopher
has shared her bed. At any rate, my
uncle has dared give my sister’s son all three of his names. So on his ninth day, let it become official:
Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Let this
ill-omen triad be registered as one of the Julian family names!”
Turning to an attendant now, Caligula
sent for his guards. It would be
learned later from Agrippina’s servants that an entire cohort had accompanied
he and his entourage to Antium. Her
brother had placed great hopes in Nero’s illegitimacy, and yet he and his
sisters, as a sign of contempt, stayed in one of Caligula’s summer villas last
night to avoid being under her roof. In
spite of their outrageous behavior, however, Agrippina felt satisfaction. Her husband had, with his last shred of
decency, acknowledged her son. She had
convinced at least one of her sisters that her son was legitimate. Although she had disliked Agrippina as much
as Drusilla, Livilla had displayed her characteristic fairness. For that matter, Claudius, her favorite
uncle, in spite of his muddled efforts, remained a true friend.
Added to her husband’s
acknowledgement, the recognition given by Livilla and Uncle Claudius would make
her son’s registration as a citizen secure.
And yet not for a moment did Agrippina take Caligula’s blessing
seriously or feel triumphant for today.
She had much work to do. There
would be a long and fearful road ahead, as long as her brother Caligula
lived. She must strengthen her ties to
Livilla and never underestimate poor uncle Claudius again.
As the noble entourage filed out, both
Claudius and Livilla flashed worried looks at the infant. Their courage had helped saved Lucius’
life. Caligula, arm in arm with his
favorite sister, turned to his brother-in-law then, wagged a bony finger in
front of his face, and spoke in the gravest tone:
“You Domitius, for penance to my
sister, shall forfeit to my nephew one third of your estate, even though he’s
not your rightful heir!”
“And you Agrippina,” his tone grew whimsical “behave yourself, and
don’t bring any more bastards into this house!
I still think he resembles Marcus Quintillus, although Drusilla thinks
he resembles an ape. Nevertheless, with
great reluctance, I leave my blessing on you.
In spite of everything, you,
if not little whats-his-face, are a Julian!”
“Therefore, on behalf of your son,” he motioned again to Domitius “your
husband shall draw up a contract to provide him with one third of his estate!”
“As for you uncle,” she heard him say
to Claudius in the hall “I plan to teach you the art of jesting. In front of such riffraff, if you ever second guess me again, I’ll have you thrown to the lions!”
Turning her attention back to her son,
Agrippina motioned for Dora to place the infant in her arms.
“I’m sorry they treated you badly
mistress.” Dora spoke to Agrippina for the first time.
“The important thing” Agrippina looked
imperiously around the room “is that Lucius, in spite of the insults we
suffered today, is alive. We all are alive. But heed my words Flavius, Felix, Claudia, and Minerva! As you might already suspect, my brother
Caligula is mad. He didn’t appreciate
your efforts today—not one bit! He will never forgive you for bringing
Lucius into the world. He will never
forgive Domitius, Claudius or my sister Livilla for acknowledging my son. . .
He called my son a bastard. . . and a beast.
He’s convinced I’m a slut!” “But my son is not a bastard!” she clutched
Nero to her breast. “Caligula, my brother,
is the bastard and the beast—the most illegitimate excuse for an emperor I’ve
ever known! . . So be careful Minerva and Claudia, least an assassin approach
my son. And be watchful Flavius and
Felix, least someone poison our food.
Until someone puts that mad dog to sleep, even you Dora, are
suspect. Great things are in store for
my son and his friends. But I will
destroy anyone, including you, who
threatens my son or interferes with my plans.
Someday, mark my word, when Caligula is dead and forgotten, he will set
upon the throne. My son, Lucius
Domitius Ahenobarbus, will one day be Emperor
of Rome!”