I expected him to roar, “The mob!” Instead, he bowed his head, his hands on his lap, and remained silent. Slowly, he clenched his fists and gouged them into his thighs. Muscles corded his arms and swelled as he stood.
“He should have come here, to us!”
“He was sick, Alcaeus.”
“Then I should have gone to him! Why was I doubly blind? I knew he was under attack for opposing the aristocrats.”
Round and round, back and forth, we talked: what might have been, what should have been:
“If he had gone to Athens, he would have been safe with Solon.”
“If only he could have stayed in Corinth...”
And remembering what a friend Aesop had been to us, he said:
“He knew I liked bread from that oven of Stexos... He was always bringing me my favorite wine.”
“He couldn’t do enough, that time I got so sick. The best doctors, he...”