‘It would wake a sea calf,’ Creperius murmured. ‘Litters, wagons, there’s no order.’

And then he said the words that I was to remember, later.

‘Your son Nero is disgusted with the city. He claims there is nothing wrong with Rome that a good fire couldn’t cure.’

A cold breeze wafted in, chilling the sweat and silencing the conversation. All I could hear was the distant roar of the sea, the surf pounding the rocks, and the cry of the gulls as they swept in before the sun finally set.

Agrippina had listened carefully to Creperius’s chatter, allowing the servants to finish their tasks. Once they were gone, she unfastened the pearl ring from her right ear lobe. She dropped it into a small jar of vinegar and watched it dissolve.

‘Cleopatra did this once,’ she murmured. ‘She took a pearl worth one million sesterces and watched it crumble.’ She smiled. ‘An offering to the Gods.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in them,’ I retorted. Agrippina shrugged one shoulder. ‘Gods,’ she whispered. ‘Or just the approach of darkness? Well, Creperius, what other news from Rome?’

‘Seagulls are regarded as a delicacy. Amerlius has gone into mourning because one of his lampreys died.’

Agrippina made a cutting movement with her hand.

‘The real gossip,’ she demanded. ‘What of my son, the Emperor?’

‘He’s still being advised by Seneca.’

‘Our great philosopher,’ Acerronia mocked.

‘Burrus commands the Praetorian Guard.’

‘I put him there,’ Agrippina snapped.

‘Otho’s back from his travels.’

‘Is he now?’ Agrippina’s lip curled. ‘And does he still shave every hair of his body to make a toupee for his bald pate? Or rub his testicles against any sacred object he can find so as to make them stronger and more potent.’ She laughed. ‘If that succeeded I really would believe in the Gods!’

‘Tigellinus is also a rising star.’

‘May the Gods help us all if Tigellinus takes over.’ She paused, head down, staring from under her eyelids. ‘And Poppea Sabina?’

Creperius sipped at his wine. I studied him carefully. A wild thought occurred. What if he had been bought? Was he really Domina’s faithful spy and servant or had Nero seduced him like he had the rest? Creperius’s watery eyes shifted towards me. He must have read my thoughts, for he shook his head slightly.

‘Poppea Sabina?’ Agrippina demanded.

‘She rules the Emperor’s heart,’ Creperius retorted. ‘Nero’s wife Octavia remains lady of the shadows. Acte,’ he sniffed at the mention of the Emperor’s former mistress, ‘is no more than a wisp of smoke. Poppea walks Rome as if she were a goddess. She covers her face with a veil: her constant prayer is that she dies before the pure whiteness of her skin is tinged with age.’

‘I’d be happy to arrange that,’ Agrippina murmured.

‘She bathes every day in the milk of asses. The Emperor has arranged for four hundred of these beasts to be kept stabled for her use. Her porphyry bath is filled with the stuff. She spends hours examining her body in long mirrors of polished silver. Crocodile mucus is bought for her hands and her body is dried with swansdown, her tongue stroked with black ivy sticks to make it soft and velvety. She has masseurs from Africa, perfumers from Cyprus, the best dressmakers from Alexandria. She uses saffron powder to make her hair turn amber and has launched a new perfume, her own recipe, ambergris.’ Creperius gestured towards the jug of vinegar. ‘Only the finest pearls from the Red Sea will do for Poppea. Her shoes are of pure white kid, and their soles are gold-leafed. When Poppea walks, her feet tap like a dancer coming onto the stage. They say she practises every movement of her eyes, her mouth, her face, her hands. She knows all there is of love-making.’

‘And, of course, Nero is entranced?’ Acerronia spoke up.

‘He’s infatuated. Poppea is now divorced from Otho but still plays the reluctant maid.’

Creperius picked up a piece of shellfish. Agrippina seemed fascinated by a point beyond his head.

‘They are coming for me, aren’t they?’ Domina whispered.

I half rose from the couch. Agrippina’s face had a stricken look. Her gaze had shifted to a shadowy corner as if she could see things we couldn’t.

‘Who’s coming, Domina?’ I murmured.

‘They are all there,’ she replied. ‘Dark-blue rings round their eyes, mouths gaping. .’

‘Domina!’ I said harshly.

She broke from the reverie. ‘So what, Creperius, is our little milkmaid saying to my son?’

‘Domina, this is only gossip.’

‘What is she saying?’ Agrippina’s voice rose to a shout.

‘Poppea demands if Nero is really Emperor of Rome. “The true ruler is your mother,” she rants. “All the important decisions are still hers”.’ And then Creperius repeated Poppea’s most bitter jibe, ‘“They call you Empress Nero and your mother Agrippina Emperor of Rome”.’

I looked at my mistress. She sipped at the Falernian, rolling it round her tongue as she did when she was deeply engrossed. This was a fight to the death: Poppea was a deadly adversary.

‘Poppea,’ Creperius continued, ‘is supposed to have given your son a gift wrapped in silk. When Nero undid the bundle all it contained was a golden coin displaying your head. “Why is this?” Poppea hissed.’

‘And?’ Agrippina broke in.

‘To give your son his due, Nero was confused. “I am an artist”, he replied. “That’s all I care about”. Poppea knelt at his feet. “And your mother?” the little hussy persisted, “saves you the trouble of being Emperor. She is always reminding the people, not that she’s Nero’s mother, but Germanicus’s daughter: that’s more important than your poetry.’

‘Who told you this?’ I asked, fearful of the effect this conversation might have on Agrippina’s raw nerves.

‘It’s chatter,’ Creperius replied defensively, ‘but the proof of the dish is in the eating. If I am wrong, why doesn’t Nero come here? Why doesn’t he invite Domina back to Rome?’

Agrippina slammed her goblet back on the table.

‘Parmenon.’ She pulled herself up from the couch and stared across at me. ‘How do you think it will come?’

‘What?’ I asked innocently.

‘My death.’

The supper room fell quiet. Even the sea seemed to hear her words, the roar of its waves now hushed.

‘He won’t go that far,’ Acerronia intervened. ‘He would be accused of matricide! To kill the daughter of Germanicus!’

‘No, he wouldn’t do it,’ I replied, ‘but others might do it for him.’

‘How?’ Agrippina’s voice grew strident. ‘Advise me, Parmenon, how?’

‘Not by poison: they’d have to get too close, and they know that you take every known antidote. Besides, the finger of suspicion would be pointed firmly at him.’

‘The dagger?’ Agrippina asked.

‘Too blunt and bloody,’ I retorted. ‘Again the trail will lead back to him. No, Domina, I think we’ve had our warning. An accident. Something which can be explained away like a collapsing roof.’

Agrippina laughed abruptly.

Creperius spoke up. ‘Or perhaps the August Nero will allow his honourable mother to live in peaceful retirement?’

‘Nero will,’ Agrippina offered. ‘But Poppea won’t. My father always advised, “Know your enemy!” If I were Poppea, I would be plotting my rival’s death. She’s no different.’ Agrippina looked at me archly. ‘She’s the gladiator I have to kill.’

‘We could strike first,’ I continued. ‘Kill Poppea. Poison her asses milk. Put some filthy potion into the powder with which she adorns her face and hands.’

Agrippina shook her head.

‘No, she’ll be waiting. The others would seize the opportunity to accuse me.’ She beat on the table top with her fingernails. ‘What will happen?’

‘Exile?’ Acerronia spoke up. ‘Perhaps the Emperor will exile you to some distant island or the wilds of Britannia?’

‘We could flee,’ I urged. ‘Go north to Germany, and seek the protection of one of the legates?’