In Bed With Lord Byron

next to me, I felt a jolt of pleasure. I must say, I’ve never found beards terribly sexy, a phobia which probably originated from reading Roald Dahl’s
The
Twits
as a child. But this man’s beard was dark and sleek and trim and adorned a beautifully chiselled face. His skin was tanned and his eyes were the same colour as Anthony’s, dark
as olives.
    I felt his gaze wander over me and I looked away, blushing. In 2005, such a gesture might have been sleazy, but back here in ancient times it felt rather sexy. For a moment we sat in taut,
electric silence.
    Then he said, ‘Do you know who’s racing at the amphitheatre today?’
    His stiff manner seemed rather incongruous with his initially relaxed air. And I had no idea what to reply.
    ‘Er . . .’ I gazed out into the arena, where the lion was now gobbling up the poor slave. ‘I’m not sure. But I feel sorry for them, whoever they are.’
    The man smiled. And I knew then, with complete conviction, that he had to be Ovid. I just
knew.
It was destiny that out of all the cities and all the amphitheatres, he had walked into
mine and sat down right next to me. I pictured the stars above sighing with pleasure as they looked down on us.
    A few more moments passed. He pretended to drop something and rather obviously snuck a look at my legs. My conversation with Anthony floated back: ‘
Ovid gave useful tips for what to do
if you’re wearing togas and watching the chariot races. He recommended that blokes should pretend to drop something so they can bend down and pick it up, flashing a glance at a woman’s
ankles
.’ Suddenly I felt cold and silly. How many women had he used that trick on? He obviously thought I was naïve and, worse, easy.
    I turned away from him, firmly tucking my ankles back underneath the bench. When he addressed me, I now answered with cool shrugs. Finally he stood up, muttered a rather ungracious goodbye and
stormed off.
    I watched his progress, smarting. He climbed over a few benches and sat down beside another man. I saw them gossiping, and then the other man looked over at me. Oh – how lovely – now
I was being discussed. They were probably calling me frigid. I looked away haughtily.
    After that, I could hardly concentrate on the games. One half of me felt proud that I hadn’t been sucked in; the other half was still hankering after Ovid in regret. I was also becoming
increasingly uncomfortable at the way they were still gossiping so intently. My curiosity aroused, I slid up the bench. Luckily, most people were too interested in watching the lion eat his way
through a few more slaves to notice me. Finally I was sitting directly behind them, a few benches back but I could just about catch their conversation.
    ‘. . . That is the way women are, you see,’ the other man was saying. ‘Women are like boars – they need to be caught in nets.’
    ‘But she did not respond at all to me.’ My admirer looked upset, his voice weak with bewilderment.
    ‘But when you are hunting a boar, each boar is a little different. Some will give a long chase and be difficult; some will, when cornered, surrender easily. Some are tough, with long
prickly tusks!’
    They both snorted with laughter.
    ‘As my apprentice, I will train you so that you have enough nets of dialogue and seduction to trap any boar you please.’
    ‘Ovid, my counsel, my teacher, my guide, please show me the way . . .’
    Ovid!
Hang on! It wasn’t my admirer who was Ovid. So . . .
    ‘I will find her,’ Ovid declared, ‘and seduce her myself. Demetrius, watch and learn.’
    They looked up, no doubt searching for me, and I quickly pretended to be engrossed in the games again.
    Noticing that I was right behind them, Demetrius jumped uneasily. But Ovid stared at me steadily. I lowered my eyes to meet his. There was a faint smirk on his face, as though he thought
I’d crept up on them because I fancied them and was now trying to play it cool.
    Arrogant sod!
I thought. And another thing: he wasn’t the slightest bit handsome. Whoever had sculptured his busts had been very generous. In real life he was slightly plump, with a
wiry beard and a bullish, pitted face. The only pleasant feature was his eyes, which were an intense blue, the colour of the Mediterranean, searing as lasers. But there was a glint of arrogance
flashing in those eyes too; his gaze seemed to jeer, ‘I can have you whenever I want you.’
    No, Ovid was definitely not my type of man. I didn’t