| M |
y heart is heavy... Aesop, my friend, is dead.
He could have had a kinder messenger—it was Pittakos who brought me the news.
“The mob killed him for causing trouble in Adelphi,” he said, his eyes cruelly cold. He had met me on the street, after a performance of “The Martyrs.”
Did he think this the right time to let me know? Was it a warning?
I stared at him, as he shambled beside me. Then, before my face could reveal too much, I lowered my veil and walked away, trembling, my eyes unseeing.
I did not go home for a long time. I walked by the shore until the ball of fire sank wearily into the dark water. The hills had a beaten look, the sea an oppressive flatness. A gull’s cry wept in me. Alone...alone... I was much more alone.
Alone in my library, I opened the box Aesop had given me and removed his fox, lion, donkey, raven and frog. He had moulded them for me. Two were made of light-colored clay, others of dark. They were as highly glazed as scarabs. I arranged them on a shelf above my desk and could feel my friend’s presence, as though he were beside me.
But there would be no more letters.
No visit!