South is an Aksumite saint, what the Greeks would call an Aithiopian—though they would call me the same. He walks through a burning city, and on his shoulders ride a boy and a girl. In his belt is tucked a painter’s brush. If I had to trust any of them, it would be this one, though something in the single line of his mouth as it is drawn begs me not to. He has enough to carry already. I wonder if the maker of this thing put himself into the image. Painters are apt to do that, in quest of immortality.