Domina (Paul Doherty Historical Mysteries) by Paul Doherty

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