II
A WIDOW’S HOPE
It had been a mild winter on the plains and hills outside of Syracusae that year. The tang of the sea could be tasted on one’s lips. It mingled with the bitter smell of the olive presses that dotted the land between that ancient bastion of Hellenism all the way to the slopes of angry Etna far to the North.
Not a few merchants had found enormous success in Sicilia, with easy access to the sea, but enough distance from Rome to more easily avoid certain political figures eager to tax others’ success. Sicilia was a world unto itself, and Syracusae more so. It was beautiful, and ancient, and very proud. Those who called it home rarely thought of leaving.
But Syracusae had never truly been home to Clara Probita. People whispered in agora and upon the temple steps of Syracus
