The Praetorian Guard was also prepared: standards were lifted in salute, trumpets brayed, swords beat against shields and the roar of the soldiers drowned the whispers of the crowd, ‘Long live Nero! Emperor and Caesar!’

My first intimation that Agrippina was not fully in charge of the plot, emerged during Claudius’s funeral. A gilded tabernacle, shaped as a small replica of the temple of Jupiter, was set up in the Forum, containing a bed carved out of ivory and covered with cloth of purple and gold. The dead Claudius lay inside, propped up at the head of the bed, his eyes closed, his face heavily made up as an exhibition to the crowd that the Emperor had not died violently but from some ‘sickness of the stomach’.

Nero stood by the tabernacle and delivered the funeral speech. When he reached the part describing Claudius as, ‘Moderate in his desires, master of all passions, neglecting his personal happiness for the greatness of Rome’, the muffled laughter of the crowd was widespread. Claudius was known as glutton, an old reprobate. Through Seneca’s sarcasm, Nero was openly ridiculing his predecessor. A similar speech was delivered to the Senate and, within a few days, Seneca’s satire appeared on the streets, ‘The Metamorphisis of the Pumpkin’, a sly, vicious attack on the attempts to deify Claudius.

‘Listen to this!’ I said to Agrippina as I read Seneca’s pamphlet. ‘“The Emperor’s soul went out of his body with a clap of thunder from his favourite organ, and he cried: ‘Oh Heavens, I think I’ve messed myself’”.’

‘Claudius deserves to be mocked,’ Agrippina replied. ‘He was a glutton, a man of excess.’

‘That’s not the point,’ I retorted. ‘If Nero is encouraged to mock the office he now holds, he mocks you as well.’

‘My son doesn’t mean to do that,’ Agrippina replied, eyes shining. ‘Have you heard the password that was given to the troops?’ She clapped her hands. ‘“Best of mothers”!’

She wouldn’t hear any more. I disagreed, but the damage was done. Seneca had not only taught Nero Rhetoric, but had also instilled in him a mocking attitude to authority and to all that had gone before: although Agrippina couldn’t see it, that included the ‘best of mothers’.

Oh, Agrippina was accorded every honour. She continued to listen to the Senate debates, sitting on a chair behind the veil. When she processed round the city, Praetorian Guards protected her palanquin; the title of ‘Augusta’ was used more and more; her image appeared on statues and coins. She had an apartment in the palace and Nero visited her every day. Under such fawning love Agrippina blossomed, and the years seemed to slip away from her. She believed she had nothing to fear: Burrus was in charge of the Praetorian Guard; Seneca was now First Minister; Pallas was in charge of the Treasury. The Senate had been purged of any enemies whilst the crowd and the army not only hailed her as mother of their young, handsome, charming Emperor but as the daughter of the great Germanicus. Ah well, politics are like the seasons: the changes are imperceptible until you suddenly realise that you have passed from the mellowness of Autumn to the chill of Winter.

Narcissus returned to Rome a broken man but still a very wealthy one. Agrippina ignored him, but Seneca, for old times sake, dined and wined him; he also encouraged that old wily fox to have one last throw before the game was over. Narcissus kept in the background, claiming ill health, and to all appearances he looked a broken man. Narcissus responded to Nero’s solicitude by agreeing to pay for the games held in honour of Nero’s accession.

I remember that day well. It was a beautiful spring morning and all of Rome was on holiday. Nero and his mother processed down to the amphitheatre near the Forum with all the panoply of power. Beautiful young slaves dressed as satyrs or fauns surrounded their gold-tasselled litter. Senators walked behind in brilliant white togas. Crack cohorts of the Praetorian Guard, in full dress armour, went before. Agrippina, of course, shared the Emperor’s litter, and I walked beside them, holding a curtain back as Nero saluted the crowd with a miniature statue of the goddess Victory carved out of pure gold and studded with precious gems. Nero regarded it as a good luck charm and took it everywhere. He was also sporting an emerald eye-glass and, every so often, would scrutinise the crowd through this before raising a languid hand to acknowledge their salutations. Agrippina wore a wreath of gold and carried a silver staff surmounted by a golden eagle with wings outstretched. She was hailed as ‘Empress’ and ‘Augusta’. She reminded me of a bride on her wedding day. The streets were strewn with flowers; canopies, stretching from one upper storey to another, showered down rose petals, and carpets and tapestries hung from the windows. At every crossroads white-garbed acolytes from the temples burnt perfumed incense in golden pots.

At the amphitheatre, guarded by lines of Praetorian Guards, Nero escorted his mother through the main entrance and up into the imperial box. The mob was already waiting, clad in their browns and greens, munching melon seeds and shouting at the water-bearers for stoups of refreshment. The day was warm and the awnings had been pulled across. To protect the mob a huge fence had been erected around the arena, on which elephant tusks were hung at intervals from which thick nets draped. The mob took this as a sign that not only would wild beasts be part of the spectacle but the games would be bloody and dangerous. The sand in the amphitheatre had been ground from a special stone, and in the sunlight it shone like golden snow. The imperial box smelt of the most fragrant perfume through which the breeze wafted the smell of stale sweat, onions, raw wine and that strange, eerie odour of imminent bloodshed.

Nero and his mother, hand-in-hand, walked to the edge of the box, its front draped in purple and gold cloths. The crowd rose as one man and roared its salutation. Nero lifted his hand, and the cheering grew even more deafening. As Nero and Agrippina took their seats, throne-like chairs raised well above the rest, Nero signalled and down the alleyways trooped imperial slaves carrying barrels filled with gifts: necklaces and brooches, food and free tickets for future events. These were thrown into the air and Nero laughed to watch the crowd scrambling to grab as much as they could, pointing to where the crush was great. I later learnt that ten people had been killed in the stampede.

Once Nero was settled, the magistrates, principal senators, leading Vestal Virgins, courtiers and their ladies garbed in silk and adorned with jewels, entered the box. These were followed by Nero’s special guests for the day who included the imperial physician, Xenephon of Cos, and the poisoner Locusta, both looking nervous and ill at ease. I knew that Agrippina hadn’t invited them, but Seneca, seated at the Emperor’s left, looked round specially as if he wanted to ensure that they were present. When Nero was distracted, deep in conversation with a Senator, I managed to catch Agrippina’s eye and indicate the two arrivals to her. Agrippina, her black hair hidden by a silver coronet to which a veil was attached, looked a little concerned but dismissed the new arrivals.

‘Why should Xenephon not be present?’ she whispered. ‘Although I admit I did pay Locusta to leave Rome and not return.’

She could say no more. An official had entered the arena and threw a roll of scarlet cloth up into the air. It spread out like a spurt of blood before floating down on the smooth raked sand. Trumpets brayed, the crowd roared its approval and the games began.

First came the usual blood-letting, an hors d’oeuvre to whet the appetite before the main meal was served. A group of condemned criminals, lashed to ‘T’-shaped crosses on mobile platforms, were wheeled into the amphitheatre. All were women, naked, their chins resting on the cross beams and their arms lashed beside them, leaving them free to move their hands. They reminded me of pinioned birds. The crowd pelted them with whatever they could lay their hands on, and soon the gold-silver sand was filthy. From the cross, in front of each victim, hung a dirty, cracked cup, the symbol of a convicted poisoner. I moved in my seat. Seneca turned to glance sideways at Nero and I caught the smirk on his face. Again the trumpets brayed. Wild, starving animals smoked from their cages, she-bears and tigresses, burst into the arena. For a while all was confusion, as a tigress attacked a bear and the most hideous, bloody struggle ensued. The condemned criminals, terrified of what was about to happen, screamed for mercy, drawing the attention of the animals to themselves. The tigress, having severely mauled the bear, turned and sprang at one victim, attacking her from the back, biting deep into her neck. The rest immediately joined in. I knew that the spectacle of poisoners, all of them women gathered from the prisons of Italy, being attacked by she-animals would jog memories and soon scandalous comparisons would be drawn. I recognised the vengeful hand of Narcissus proclaiming that this was how Rome dealt with poisoners. Agrippina appeared unperturbed, more interested in the report she had brought with her, studying the rolls of documents, as if she was in the imperial chancery rather than at a bloody spectacle.