In Bed With Lord Byron

Tiryns. My body was covered in sweat and my back groaned from holding her up. As she bucked and wailed against me, I felt as though her pain arrowed from
her shoulders, up her arms and into my heart. But just when I felt I couldn’t last out any longer, it happened. I heard the faint sound of crying. A bawling face, a head, shoulders . . .
slowly but surely, a sticky lump of flesh emerged and fell into Hilara’s hands. Tiryns immediately collapsed like a burst balloon and I helped her to lie down again.
    ‘Hold it while I cut the cord,’ Hilara instructed.
    ‘Oh – no – I couldn’t possibly.’ I shied away, but Hilara thrust the baby into my hands.
    ‘Ooh, it’s a boy,’ I cried, frowning and then checking again that he really did have a willy and it wasn’t just the umbilical cord.
    He was sticky and covered with blood and his screams were blasting my face. But he was beautiful. My heart stopped. I could hear Tiryns whimpering and reaching out, but for one dazed moment I
couldn’t let go; I wished with all my soul that he belonged to me.
    Then I passed him over and she clutched him, crying and laughing and cooing over him. Dazed, I muttered that I needed some fresh air.
    Outside, the night wrapped its arms around me in a cool caress.
    It was bizarre. I had spent all of my twenties being petrified of getting pregnant. Whenever I’d had sex with Anthony, I had surreptitiously waited for him to go to the loo afterwards and
then carefully checked the condom for minute holes where one naughty sperm might have wriggled out shouting, ‘
Escape, escape!
’ Once or twice we had got tired of them and taken a
chance, which had then always put me into a state of panic. Luckily I’d never suffered a disaster, though my period only had to be a few days late for me to start feeling jumpy and irritable
and paranoid.
    And yet when I had held Tiryns’ baby, all I felt was love. Simple as that. I couldn’t analyse it or explain it or be intellectual: it was a purely emotional gut response, and it was
one of glorious euphoria.
    I went back into the summerhouse to find that the baby was now quiet in his mother’s arms. But Tiryns was weeping; her tears fell and splashed on the baby’s face
and he blinked in innocent curiosity.
    ‘Tiryns, are you OK?’ I put my arm around her.
    ‘Let her be,’ said Hilara, guiding me away. ‘You know how hard it is for a slave to give birth. Of course, if that boy really had been Servius’ baby, he would have become
a family pet and Ovid might have loved him as his own son until he grew up and became a slave. The trouble is,’ she lowered her voice, clearly enjoying the gossip, ‘Adrasteia knows the
baby is Ovid’s, so they say. They say she might send the child away, or else make sure he becomes a gladiator and goes to an early death!’
    ‘But that’s terrible,’ I cried fiercely. ‘Look, I’ll speak to Ovid. He has to be strong about this. No, don’t laugh, Hilara, I will. I swear I’ll help
Tiryns out.’
    Over the next few days, Ovid – how convenient – found himself called away on urgent business.
    Adrasteia had allowed Tiryns to keep her baby for the present, but had had her moved to the most distant room in the house. Every time she heard so much as a tiny whimper, she would look deeply
pained.
    As for poor Tiryns – well, the Romans didn’t seem to have any concept of maternity leave. She had to combine cooking with nappy-changing and washing with breast-feeding. I did my
best to help her out with her chores – and from time to time she let me help with the baby too.
    ‘Here, take him, but be careful with him.’ She passed him over, her expression fearful. ‘Oh God, what if he ends up in the gladiator’s ring? I already love him so much; I
cannot bear to lose him.’
    I gripped the baby, feeling close to tears myself. As I gazed down at his chubby face, I made a promise that I wouldn’t go back home until I had done all I could to help Tiryns and ensure
her baby would be safe.
    v) The fight
    It was meant to be the highlight of the amphitheatre calendar. It was the Emperor’s birthday, which meant weeks of games galore. In Roman terms, this was like England vs.
Germany in the World Cup final. The benches were packed; the air shook with bloodthirsty roars. Ovid had just returned from his business, and much to my surprise, he had chosen me to accompany him
and his wife to the games. I was sitting next to Ovid; Adrasteia sat on his