Alcaeus, facing the sea, lidless-eyed, roared and lunged about, arms extended, yelling:
“Kill him...kill him...let me wring his neck!”
Beside him, the madman off the raft, howled and hurled stones.
About a dozen men were circling Pittakos, most of them blabbing defiance, closing in.
I rushed to Alcaeus and squeezed past him, to cry out... I told them to stop, asking them to stop in the name of our island, our town.
“Get back,” Alcaeus warned.
I faced them, feeling their hate: it bubbled through me, seemed to ooze from the sand, from the sea, from antiquity: the hates of my ancestors, hatred of tyranny and unfairness.
No one threw: they watched me, as I walked toward Pittakos: maybe they thought I had a stone.
“You get back,” I cried. “Go home, before they kill you, Pittakos. Get back everyone...go home.”
Nervously folding and unfolding his robe, Pittakos backed away. A hand went to a spot where a stone must have struck. I felt no pity but stepped closer.