Not to end on a downer, but the word is that Syracuse is doomed. We’re under siege, and the Carthaginians are meant to sack the city any day now. Make us slaves. People are getting out, and Strabo wants me to go too, but I won’t. It’s mad; I’ve always wanted to leave Syracuse, ditch this house, but now that I have a perfect excuse, I don’t know, I can’t seem to do it. Stubborn, I guess. There’s Gelon’s grave, too, and that needs tending. It’s up past Epipole, and I make my way there most weeks and tell him what I’ve been up to, which usually isn’t much. Sometimes I’ll play a tune on the aulos,
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