“Tell Alcaeus I send him my best, that I miss him...”
I took my letter to Alcaeus and read it aloud in his library.
“I’m afraid it is serious this time,” I said.
“It is always serious, when we speak out,” said Alcaeus, laying his palms flat on the desk.
“He says it is dangerous for him to come here.”
“And you, Alcaeus, do you think you have learned restraint?”
“Those of us who are free must speak, or there will be no freedom, no free men left to restrain those who think in terms of chains.”
Sitting in the square the other day, I listened to Alcaeus speaking, excited because he had taken cudgel in hand. Blind though he is, he strikes an imposing figure, even majestic. Leaning on his cane, staring over the townsmen who crowd the forum, he looks a pillar, his head shaggy, beard glistening with oil, clothes immaculate.
Something about the day had a timeless quality, as though none of it was old, the exorbitant taxes, the stringent laws, the situation of the veteran—and the sea rolling, the gulls crying, the sun shining.
Pittakos has not shown any noticeable objection. Perhaps he remembers the youthful champion, before the exile. Then, it was not easy to ignore the charges against those in office, the outcries against “drunkards, thieves, bastards!” Now Pittakos nods and walks on his way, aware that a blind man may be an excellent orator but no longer a soldier.
And recalling the years in exile, I knew how bitter Alcaeus was. If there is less vehemence in his voice than before, there is also greater conviction.
lcaeus has taken back his former secretary. I am glad for all our sakes: Alcaeus’, Gogu’s, mine. I hear they are working hard. Now, when Thasos inquires at my door, I make excuses. They can get along without me.
I keep hoping and waiting someone else will come to inquire, will bring a message. Since he never looks for me, I must not look for him.
I will walk by the sea until I am too tired to move.
My pretty Gyrinno is sick with too much sun and too much swimming so I go about pampering her and nothing pleases her more.
It has been some time since I brought her a tray, one I fixed especially for her. I combed her hair tonight, cooled her skin with ointment, and teased her till she made me promise a gift, a silver mirror from Serfo’s shop, one with suitably naughty figures on the back and handle: “the convivialists,” Serfo has named it.