irreparable to the Empire as it had existed, may yet be seen as the political equivalent of an amputation of a diseased limb from an otherwise healthy body. Priscus and I thought we had saved Egypt. The Persians still took it from us, and Syria too. Eventually, of course, we did beat the Persians. We did find the second Alexander that Priscus always wanted to be. He didn’t so much defeat the Persians as annihilate them. It was as if he’d laid hands on the object. The pressure they had brought, during four hundred years, on the Empire’s eastern frontier was completely lifted. Back into every province from which we’d been driven we marched in triumph.
Then we had another letter from the Saracens in bad Greek. We ignored that one. What followed couldn’t be ignored.
Other questions may come to mind. My narrative doesn’t so much end as reach a sudden halt. What became of us all once we’d left Alexandria? Did Priscus ever get his just deserts? What about Martin? How did Maximin turn out? What did Heraclius think of that less than glorious attempt to redistribute the land of Egypt? Dear me, questions, questions, so many questions! I can answer all of them. And I will answer them if I can evade that threatened canonisation long enough.
But something I will not discuss is the dreams. I must, during the past seventy years, have seen that face a thousand times in dreams. But time, as with a much handled coin, had inevitably blurred over the cold perfection of its beauty. I hadn’t expected ever again to see it so clearly in my mind’s eye as I find myself now able to do.
No, I will not discuss that. Call it, if you will, another infirmity of age.
