Leaves Of The Tree

<p><em style=color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>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.</em></p><p><span style=color: rgba(0 0 0 1)></span><em style=color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>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.</em></p><p><span style=color: rgba(0 0 0 1)></span><em style=color: rgba(0 0 0 1)> </em></p><p><span style=color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>Confident arrogant and certain of his rôle as leader of the new Christian movement Paul of Tarsus comes to Alexandria to meet the cousin of his saviour. It should have been a formality; a courtesy no more.</span></p><p><span style=color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>Deborah's knowledge came from direct experience of Jesus' teaching; Paul's from revelation on the road to Damascus. Could these two proud and volatile people work together and make a union that could change the world or would it tear both them-and the new faith-apart? </span></p><p></p>