Accepting Destiny
by Elizabeth M. Barrfor Mum
Christmas 2001
acknowledgments: Tacitus and Suetonius, whose accounts of Agrippina's death
are so different that at least one can be called fiction.
She expected to be dead by the end of the day.
Agrippina the Younger, daughter of Germanicus, wife of Nero, once the most powerful woman in the Roman Empire, was waiting to die. She swept into her villa, ignoring the concerned and curious crowds surrounding her home.
As soon as she was inside, a slave woman handed her a drink. "Domina," she said, "you should rest."
Agrippina almost brushed the woman aside, but then she became aware of her weariness. It had been many years since she'd swum, and she'd travelled a great distance during the night.
During the night. She remembered the feast, the shipwreck. The ship her son had offered her. The crew who had killed her companions.
Her son was trying to kill her.
Her son had tried to kill her.
Her son, the laughing boy who had tried to catch the birds, who had once loved her above all others, who had owed everything to her.
Her son had tried to kill her.
The astrologer had warned her, of course, only hours after his birth.
"He will be emperor, and he will kill his mother."
"Let him kill me," she'd answered, "as long as he becomes emperor."
She'd been reckless, foolish and arrogant. And scared, because her brother was insane and unpredictable. She had no power of her own, but the screaming babe she'd helped create, he would have power. And through him … strength, power, security. She'd learnt to crave these things from an early age.
"Let him kill me," she'd said.
She had been stupid once.
No longer.
Only fools attempted to defy fate.
Oedipus had been a fool.
Caligula had been a fool.
Claudius …
Ah, Claudius, she thought now. Husband, uncle, partner. Emperor. You were no fool.
Claudius had never sought godhood, but she'd demanded that Nero have him deified. Because it would make her son look good, and because she had loved Claudius in her way. Not as a wife should love a husband, perhaps, but as one competent consul might have loved his equally-skilled colleague, back in the days of the Republic. Yes, a Republican analogy for her Republican husband. Very appropriate. The writer in her -- how many other Roman women had written commentarii on their own lives? Claudius had laughed, but he'd also praised her work -- approved.
She'd deified him because she'd killed him, and she wanted to give him a better afterlife than an eternity in a dark underworld. Livia had done as much for Augustus.
She had loved Claudius, but not so much that she'd allow him to stand between Nero and the Principacy.
Nero. She'd given him everything, and he'd tried to have her drowned.
Nearly alone in her chambers, in her all-too-quiet villa, Agrippina sat down, ignoring the lingering dampness in her clothing. The slave woman handed her a warm drink and waited nearby, inconspicuous and silent.
Agrippina took a sip of her drink and reluctantly admitted that she had never really believed in the prophecy. Had never really believed that her darling boy could become a cold-blooded monster.
Fool.
She'd been young and -- not naïve, no one could remain naïve for long in Caligula's court, especially not his sisters -- arrogant.
She'd been arrogant.
Her mother had possessed the same fault. Tiberius used to taunt her in Greek: "And if you are not queen, my dear, have I then done you wrong?"
And if you are not queen…
I was queen, she wanted to tell her mother. I was the empress. I, Julia Agrippina Augusta, daughter of Germanicus, great-granddaughter of Augustus. I was the most powerful woman in Rome.
She had been queen. She had survived Tiberius, survived Caligula, survived Claudius.
And soon she would be dead.
My Nero, my Lucius Domitius, she thought. You had so much potential.
Potential which had barely been fulfilled. Seneca had been too indulgent, letting him study philosophy when he should have been learning about politics. Seneca and Burrus, they'd both let her down. Her son, who should have become a great Roman, was a soft Greek.
"You constantly criticise me," Nero had complained to her. "You never let me do what I want."
Of course not, she thought now. Why should she indulge his desire to chase freedwomen and tarts like Poppaea Sabina? He was the emperor. He could -- should -- do better.
It was too late now. There was no point in becoming bitter about things she couldn't change.
She wondered briefly whether she could get out of this, survive somehow. Beg forgiveness from the Emperor. Promise to behave as befitted a Roman widow.
Grovel.
Never.
She'd only been a girl at the time, but she remembered her mother's endless and ultimately futile battles with Tiberius. She'd watched, and learnt, and sworn never to grovel before a depraved emperor.
That vow didn't survive Caligula, but she'd become accustomed to having authority -- and respect, how novel -- with Claudius. She didn't want to go back to the old ways. Nor did she want to die like her mother, broken and exiled to some island.
She heard shouts outside. They are coming.
They were coming to kill her.
Her slave had vanished, slipped away while she was distracted. She was alone.
The doors swung open, and a group of men entered. Common sailors, she realised -- not Praetorians. She vaguely recognised their leaders. She wondered whether Burrus had refused to send the Praetorians, who were still in love with her father's memory, and dangerously loyal to her.
She remembered Livia's dignity, enormously intimidating to an adolescent girl whose body was ruled by elbows and knees. Livia had died as an empress should, in bed, surrounded by family. Except for her son, who failed in his duties towards her, and never left Capri.
Livia had ultimately been deified. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps someone would do the same for her…
Agrippina stood up, moving with as much grace as she could muster. She touched her belly, and indulged in one last moment of disappointment in her son.
"Strike here," she said, and prepared to accept fate at last.
At the last moment, she closed her eyes.
end
Author's notes: I deliberately diverged from the sources' accounts of Agrippina's final moments. I could construct a complex argument which I'd summarise as "Well, they weren't there either, so it might have happened my way…" but the decision primarily stemmed from the writing style. I have trouble balancing introspection with action. In fact, I'm terrible at it. Sorry. Call it a character study rather than a true short story.
As for Agrippina's commentarii, there is debate about the date they were written, their purpose and their literary value. All we have are Tacitus' comments: "This incident [her mother's request to remarry], ignored by historians, I found in the memoirs of Agrippina's daughter (mother of the emperor Nero), in which she recorded for posterity her life and her family's fortunes." It is significant that they are described as "commentarii," as these were traditionally political autobiographies, self-justifications. Caesar's books are a perfect example.
feedback is very, very welcome: elizabeth_barr@yahoo.com.au
Copyright © 2001-2 Elizabeth M. Barr. Look, Ma! It's original!Fic! Originally written as a Christmas present for my mother.