In Bed With Lord Byron

stumbled, only just keeping my balance. I saw blood glinting on my sword, silver-red in the sun.
I gazed at the lion. By God, I’d struck it! I turned to the crowd, listening to their roar. But despite their cheers, I only felt empty. The lion paused in the distance, staring at me with
cruel yellow eyes; I could sense its rage, saw it quivering in the swirl of its tail. I thought: what I have done except harm a poor beast? What is the point of this? They call this
entertainment?
    When the lion came at me this time, my resolve crumbled. There was no room for weakness in this game, and the animal struck me on the arm, leaving three gashes, like red stripes on a uniform.
This time, though, it was my right arm. I could barely hold my sword; any movement of my fingers sent ripples of pain shooting down to my elbow.
    The lion stood in the distance, silhouetted against the sun. Perhaps it was just my wooziness, but there seemed to be an aura of sadness about it now. It seemed to be saying:
I should kill
you before you kill me, but it’s such a pointless waste.
I felt rage burn inside me. I couldn’t win. I’d wanted to defy Ovid and save Tiryns and her child. But it was no
good.
    I made my decision there and then. I threw down my sword and ran across the arena, spraying up sand. At the end was a stone wall, and I closed my eyes and mustered up every last drop of energy
to vault over it, crying out as the pain tore through my arms.
    The crowd were so stunned that they didn’t even try to stop me at first. In ancient Rome it was better to die a noble death than run and risk loss of honour; I was behaving with a brazen
cowardice that was beyond comprehension. I ran up the steps, breathless. And then they came at me. Rising from their benches, shouting and pushing and reaching out to get me. I stopped, my heart
screaming, and willed the time machine to come. It appeared and I dived into it, wrenching myself away from a grabbing arm. I punched in the date, blood splashing everywhere, and collapsed into the
seat, my eyes closed.
    And then I was back in my living room, and I rolled out of the machine and lay on the carpet, breathless.
    vi) Pineapple Lyon-Brown
    A few days after I had returned home, I went to have lunch in the park again. It seemed as though the world had changed; it seemed as though it was a very different place.
    I had hardly noticed them before, unless forced. Now they were everywhere I looked. Mothers and babies. Mothers struggling with buggies on buses; mothers fighting with their children over sweets
at supermarket checkouts; mothers in the park, giving them ice cream and wiping their sticky mouths and planting kisses on their heads. In the park, I sat on my bench and, in the manner of some
broody thirty-something ready to run to the nearest sperm bank, I watched them. I felt bewildered by my emotions, by the strength of them; at one point a kid fell down on the gravel and his mother
scooped him up, and the sound of his tears made me feel like crying myself.
    But then the tears ebbed away. I realised that I was suffering less a sense of grief for Tiryns’ situation and more a sense of longing. Something had opened up inside me that had
previously been in bud. It surprised me how strong the emotion was – both a personal ache and also a universal one. I had a desire to protect every child being born right now; it was a love
for humanity, an instinctive, universal, motherly love.
    Oh God, what shall I say? How shall I say it? Just a casual ‘Hi, how are you?’ Should I mention the fight? Apologise?
    And all the while the phone was ringing, and then suddenly he had picked up.
    ‘Hello, Anthony here.’
    ‘Anthony, it’s Lucy.’ I could feel my breath in the receiver, reverberating hotly on my cheek. ‘I was wondering if – if you might like to come over to
dinner.’
    A silence.
    ‘I presume you mean would I like to come over and cook us both some dinner?’
    ‘Uh – well . . .’ I blustered, and then I realised that he was laughing, and that the row was over and I was forgiven.
    In the early phase of my relationship with Anthony, I loved to watch him cook. He was the type of man who couldn’t do anything half-heartedly. He always narrowed all of
his energies into one intense, passionate beam of concentration. Now I stood in the kitchen, leaning against the fridge, taking slow sips from a glass of wine, my eyes soft on him. I watched him
pluck herbs like a magician weaving a