By this time Nero had accustomed himself to the thought of getting rid of his mother by treacherous violence. His five years of empire had inspired him with audacity and confidence. His passion for Poppæa burned with ever fiercer flame. His hatred for Agrippina, as the main obstacle in the path of his desires, grew daily more sullen; and Poppæa had aroused his fears by persuading him that his mother was plotting against his life. Since poison had failed, and he shrank from using the dagger, he had determined to follow the deadly suggestion of Tigellinus, and to make it appear that the Augusta had perished in an accident at sea. To prepare the way for his purpose, he began to express his determination to be reconciled with his mother. ‘The anger of parents,’ he said, ‘must be cheerfully borne. It is my duty as a son to soothe my mother’s irritation. I long to be on good terms with her once more.’ Again and again he repeated these sentiments to various persons, and he took care that they should reach the ears of his mother. Octavia herself, grateful for the efforts of Agrippina on her behalf, told the Augusta that Nero’s feelings seemed to be undergoing a change, and that perhaps he would restore to her, spontaneously, her former honours. The hope kindled by this intelligence fell on the last days of the Empress-mother like a ray of cruel sunshine out of the thunder-clouds which had so long been gathering around her. It was natural that in her misery she should be credulous of good tidings, and perhaps her heart was softened to her son by the fact that she was now living in the villa at Antium where she had given him birth, and in which nearly every room recalled the memories of his childish brightness, and the winning trustfulness of a heart as yet unstained, of a beauty as yet unshadowed by evil secrets and base desires. The villa was full of splendour. The Apollo Belvedere and the Fighting Gladiator were but two of the many statues which adorned it. But what was art, what was splendour to a mind diseased? She found more happiness in the tame birds which would settle on her finger, and the yellow brown-marbled lampreys which came to feed out of her hand. On March 18, the day before the Feast of Minerva began, her heart throbbed with pleasure to receive a delightful letter from her son. Couched in the most loving terms, it conveyed to her a genial invitation to come to him at Baiæ, and there to spend, in due mirth and feast, the first day of the festival. ‘Fancy that I am a schoolboy once more,’ wrote Nero, ‘and that you, my loving mother, are welcoming me home for my holidays.’ How could Agrippina help indulging the hope that better days had at last begun to dawn? The next morning, gladder than she had ever been since her husband’s murder, she made her way through the grounds of her villa to the little haven where was moored the Liburnian galley which she used for excursions along the shore.