‘You see!’ Agrippina exclaimed, once the imperial party had left. ‘Don’t you see, Parmenon, this is a fresh beginning.’

‘We are to return to Rome?’

‘We are to return to Rome.’ She smiled and, clapping her hands, shouted to the servants and slaves to make her quarters ready.

I supervised the baggage being brought in. I had a quiet word with Acerronia and Creperius. Everything was to be checked — the wine, the perfume, the sheets, the coverlets — for any trace of poison. I went outside. Dusk had fallen but the garden lights shed a golden glow, and I glimpsed armour: Burrus had apparently ringed Domina’s pavilion with a suitable guard. I trusted the Prefect but what of Nero?

Agrippina spent the rest of the day preparing herself. She bathed in the marble tub, Acerronia rubbing precious cream and perfume into her skin. She piled her hair up, holding it in place with jewelled pins and small ivory combs. She dressed in a white stola fringed with purple and gold, a lapis lazuli gorget round her throat, gold bangles on her wrists and ankles. She looked beautiful and spun on her heel, hands extended.

‘Look, Parmenon!’ she cried. ‘How can any son resist a mother like this?’

I could have wept at the sheer pathos. Agrippina looked as brilliant as some rare jewel. Yet here was the great Domina, Agrippina, daughter of Germanicus, mother of the Emperor of Rome, having to act like a courtesan to obtain what was naturally hers, Nero’s affections.

The Emperor, of course, played his part well and responded in kind. We dined in a special pavilion of silken cloth, the air sweet with roses and honey-suckle. The tables were arranged in a horse-shoe fashion with couches, covered in gold and silver cloth, ranged along the side. Torches, candelabra and scented oil lamps lit the darkness and, as Nero proclaimed, created an artificial day in Agrippina’s honour. He escorted her to the place of glory. I was left at the foot of the table. I was glad to be there, so that I had a good view of the rest. If Agrippina had decided to gather all her enemies together in one place, she couldn’t have done better. Seneca, Tigellinus, Burrus, Anicetus and, of course, smooth-skinned Otho smirking behind his hand. Only the golden Poppea was absent.

Musicians in the background provided music. Jugs of wine were circulated once again, and toasts were made. I saw Nero wink down the table at Anicetus and my blood ran cold. This feast may begin with laughter but it would end in tears, even death. I tried to appear distracted, as if more concerned with the nearby aviaries carved in the fashion of a temple, full of rare singing-birds, or the marble basins full of live fish which the guests could pick out for cooking. Servants and slaves of both sexes, the most beautiful Rome could supply, solicitously tended to every want. I tried to catch Agrippina’s eye but it was futile. She was only interested in Nero. As far as she was concerned, everything else was like the air we breathe, hardly to be noticed.

At last the banquet itself began. Fish, poultry and game were brought in, followed by a roast pig stuffed with live quails which flew away when the chef slit its belly. A troop of cooks entered, preceded by a line of musicians playing flutes. The chef carried a whole boar on a huge silver salver. When this too was cut, it was seen to be stuffed with pheasants, inside which were quails, which in turn were filled with ortolans. After each course the attendants returned, allowing us to wash our hands and face in perfumed water.

We then solemnly processed to a second pavilion where the tables were even more sumptuously laid out. From the poles hung golden lamps in which burned scented oils. We were crowned with roses and, behind each guest, a slave wafted perfumed feather fans. Sherberts were served, mixed with snow and tinged with the lightest of white wines. Dancers from Antioch entered and performed a sensuous ballet to the lilting tunes of zithers and flutes. The evening became more raucous. Guests got to their feet, staggered outside to be sick and returned to gorge themselves even more. Others helped themselves to the dancers or slave girls. In the corner of the pavilion Otho made noisy love to one of the slave girls whilst another looked on and encouraged the coupling pair. Creperius and Acerronia sat opposite me, both of them deep in their cups. I wondered if their wine had been laced with some potion or powder. I ate and drank nothing. All I was aware of were flushed, sweaty faces, glittering eyes, raucous music and the shouts and cries of the revellers. Like all the guests, I had been searched to ensure I carried no arms but I’d managed to seize a carving knife and place it under my couch. All the time I watched Nero and his mother. Sometimes they kissed, rubbed noses, held each other’s hands. On one occasion Nero shared her couch and laid his head on her breast. I could tell he was playing a part for the onlookers. Now and again Nero would flash a sly smirk at one of his cronies. They, in turn, tried to draw me into conversation, wishing to share a joke or tidbits of gossip from Rome.

Anicetus came and sat on the edge of my couch, cradling his wine cup, his little monkey face wreathed in a shifty grin.

‘You are solemn, Parmenon,’ he slurred.

‘I’m worried, Anicetus.’ I pulled myself further up. ‘Do I need to be worried?’

‘Worried?’ Anicetus mocked. ‘Parmenon, why should you worry? Here is food, wine, music and, above all, the company of your Emperor!’

I smiled at the trap.

‘The Emperor is always in my thoughts,’ I retorted. ‘He is the beginning, end and substance of my being. I am, as you know, the Emperor’s most loyal servant. Do we have anything to fear, Anicetus?’

He rose, tapped me patronisingly on the shoulder and walked away.

A slave girl came up and crouched beside me. She was a mere child really and I could tell from her olive skin and sloe eyes that she was Egyptian. She offered to share my couch, but when I shook my head, she pouted and walked away. My eyes were only for Nero and his mother. The night seemed to drag on for an eternity. At last the wine had its effect: one by one the guests succumbed, sprawled on couches or on the floor. Nero was no different. Agrippina eventually looked in my direction. Just for a moment her mask slipped. Perhaps she’d realised her son’s extravagant praises were as false as they were empty. She smiled, gently extricated herself from her son’s drunken embrace and got to her feet. I accompanied her out into the perfumed darkness.

‘Was there ever such a feast, Parmenon?’ she called out over her shoulder. ‘Was there ever such a son?’

‘Domina!’ I urged, coming up behind her. ‘Domina!’ I hissed, seizing her wrist.

She dragged it away and lifted her hands, fingers splayed. In the light of the torches her eyes had a hard look. She brought her other hand up as if in prayer.

‘Please don’t, Parmenon! Don’t spoil it for me. If I am to go into the dark, let me go happy.’ She touched the side of her head. ‘Let me take my dreams with me.’

And, spinning on her heel, she walked into the night. I trailed behind to make sure but she reached her pavilion safely. The waiting slaves, holding torches, escorted her in. I noticed the guards sheltering under the trees and recalled Burrus’s words, ‘No soldier of mine would draw their sword against the daughter of Germanicus.’ I was about to walk away when I heard a rustling in the bushes and paused.

‘Don’t look round!’ a voice whispered hoarsely. ‘Just listen!’

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Don’t talk, just listen!’ The voice paused. ‘“Oak and triple bronze”,’ it whispered, ‘“must have encircled the heart of the man who first committed a frail boat to the cruel sea”.’

I recognised the quotation from one of Horace’s odes.

‘Is that all?’ I called back.

‘“Brute force, without judgement, collapses under its own weight”.’