I was poring over a scroll in the library when he came; dressed in my most faded, old clothes; my hair breaking free from its plaits as it so often did. There would have been ink on my fingers and frown-lines on my forehead as I tussled with language, religion and bad penmanship.

He had to say my name twice before I heard him. Then, as I looked up, shock drained all the colour from my face. There was no doubt who it was, even if more than a decade had passed since our last meeting and, although I had half been expecting him for almost as long as I had lived in Alexandria, it had become an unspecified event which would happen some day. Not now. Not here. Not standing in front of me when I looked such a mess.

Confident, arrogant and certain of his r