Agrippina wasn’t listening.

‘Bring Salvara,’ she murmured. ‘Hurry!’ She snapped her fingers. ‘I want her now!’

Salvara was a witch, a local wise woman who lived in a hut amongst the pine-clad hills behind the villa. I left and sent servants to fetch her. I was surprised when they returned immediately with the old woman between them. She was a bony bundle, dressed in rags stinking of the unguents and potions she distilled. Youthful clear grey eyes full of mockery gazed out of Salvara’s lined face.

‘I was already on my way,’ she announced, her tone cultured and refined. I recalled rumours that, many years ago, she’d played the great lady in Pompeii.

‘How did you know?’ I asked.

‘I’d like to say I’d divined it but the news is all over the countryside that the Augusta has received a messenger from Rome, and a festive banquet has been held.’ She cocked her head slightly. ‘Yet I can hear no music or singing.’

‘It’s not that type of banquet,’ I replied. ‘The Augusta waits.’

I took her down the colonnaded portico. Agrippina had been drinking more quickly, her face was slightly flushed, her eyes enlarged and glittering. Salvara bowed and squatted before the table.

‘I knew you would need me.’

She undid her small leather sack, laid out the bones on the floor and, opening a small stoppered phial, sprinkled these with blood. Without asking permission, she took Agrippina’s goblet and sipped from it before mixing the wine with the blood. Salvara stirred the bones, praying quietly to herself. I have never believed in the black arts, although I have seen many tricks that would take your breath away. Some of the best mountebanks in the empire have performed their games before me. Agrippina was as sceptical as I, but Salvara, like Joah the Jew, was different: there were none of the tricks, the theatrical gestures and the high drama of the professional charlatans. Only an old woman crouched before Domina, staring down at the bones, crooning softly to herself. The song was like a lullaby a mother sings to a fretful child. My eyes grew heavy. I shook myself and looked around. Creperius and Acerronia lolled on their couches as if they’d drunk deeply. Agrippina only had eyes for the witch. The chamber grew very warm, and a wind blew in, dry and sharp like that from the desert.

‘What do you see, Mother?’ Domina asked. ‘Has the veil lifted?’

‘What do you want me to see?’ came the sly reply.

‘My fate.’

‘Death!’ came the answer.

‘We are all to die, Salvara, but how, why, when?’

‘When, I cannot say.’

Some of the oil lamps guttered out. The darkness around Salvara grew more intense.

‘Will I be reconciled to my son?’

‘Before you die you shall be reconciled,’ came the tired, slow reply.

Salvara had her eyes closed, rocking herself backwards and forwards, her fingers pressed to the floor.

‘And whom should I fear?’

‘The master of the sea.’

‘The master of the sea? Will I drown?’

‘You shall not drown, Domina, but be wary of the master of the sea!’

‘Neptune?’ I called out.

Salvara wasn’t listening. ‘You shall be reconciled, Domina, and receive your son’s sweet embrace and loving kiss. But, remember my words, be careful of the master of the sea!’

The old woman’s head drooped. The warmth dissipated. Agrippina, her eyes brimming with tears of joy, toasted me silently with her cup.

Agrippina was a changed woman. Salvara had said that she would be reconciled with Nero, so she thought it was only a matter of waiting. Once again the villa became a place of light, and musicians and dancers were hired. Agrippina spent more time out in the garden, tending flower beds, gossiping with Acerronia. It was all sun, no shadow. I tried to advise her to act prudently. She may have heard, but she certainly didn’t listen. She spent more time on her appearance, hiring hairdressers, buying perfumes and pastes. She even went out to apologise to the chickens and made us all laugh with the little mime she concocted. I hadn’t the heart to remind her that she was still in the arena and the game had yet to begin. Would Poppea give up? I knew Nero for what he was: a spoilt, depraved actor who could play any part the mood suited him. I was troubled by the phrase ‘master of the sea’. What had Salvara meant by that?

Not being superstitious, I decided it was only a matter of logic. Since no one would dare draw a dagger, or so I thought, against the daughter of Germanicus, and poison was ruled out, Agrippina’s death would have to appear an accident. I took matters into my own hands. I patrolled the garden at night, checked doors, paid out money for information to the pedlars and tinkers who wandered the roads.

Antium became busier as the weather improved and the people left the city to take the sea breezes. Our next visitor was that doddering old fool, the banker Quintus Veronius with his balding head, perpetually dripping nose and eyes which looked as if he never stopped crying. He’d made a fortune in the Egyptian corn trade and spent most of his wealth raising peacocks. He’d once made the mistake of inviting Caligula to dinner. Our madcap Emperor arrived and spent most of the evening shooting at the birds from a balcony. The peacocks died and Veronius had a nervous breakdown. He’d retired to Campania and spent his life in mourning until Caligula’s murder. Veronius was a fool, who could be used by anyone. He arrived at the villa in his cumbersome litter as if it was a chance visit, but of course, he’d been sent deliberately. The news he brought only delighted Agrippina further.

‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ Veronius slobbered over his wine. ‘The Emperor, Augusta, is full of your praises. He’s banished two actors from Rome for their lying attacks on your Majesty.’

‘And Poppea?’ I asked wearily.

‘She’s seen less and less. There is news,’ Veronius continued, ‘that Nero is to visit Baiae.’

Every wrinkle disappeared from Agrippina’s face, which became as smooth and creamy as that of a young girl.

‘He’ll visit me,’ she murmured, ‘or he’ll invite me to his villa. You wait and see.’

Veronius continued his journey and Agrippina’s preparations became more frenetic. At last it happened. A bireme arrived on the coast. Officers of the Praetorian Guard marched up the shingle, along the white, dusty trackway and presented themselves at the main door of the villa. They delivered their invitation. The Divine Augustus, Nero, Emperor of Rome, intended to celebrate the feast of Minerva in his imperial villa at Baiae, and he wished Agrippina, ‘the best of mothers’, to be his honoured guest. If I hadn’t stopped her, Agrippina would have kissed them to death. Both officers stayed with us overnight, saying that the bireme would take Agrippina and her household across the bay the next day.

The villa was transformed: servants scurried about; chests and coffers were packed and taken down to the beach. Agrippina emptied her wardrobe, fiercely debating with Acerronia which shoes she should wear, which dress would best suit the occasion.

I travelled lightly, taking just my tunic, sandals, sword, writing implements and a small casket which carried antidotes to the best-known poisons. I also sought the company of the two Praetorians. Former centurions from the German legions, they were only too pleased to be away from the court and to sample the best wine from Agrippina’s cellars whilst sunning themselves in the garden. I introduced myself and let it be known that my father had been an officer in the Second Augusta. For a while we chatted. They were honest men, more interested in fighting, women and wine than in court scandal. Nevertheless, I picked up something: they found it hard to look me in the eye, and if I mentioned Poppea they became tight-lipped. When I reminded them that Agrippina was the daughter of the great Germanicus, they looked away, as if more interested in the flowers and herb plots. I had learnt enough. These men were not party to any plot but they had ears, quick wit and could sense the undercurrents of the court. I returned to the villa and urged Domina to be careful. Agrippina, however, was at her most stately.