“Under the branches of a wild fig tree extending shelter to newborn twins. Sweet nectar, milk-like, fragrant of ripened, dark fruit. Protective as the she-wolf nurturing the sons of an empire. Unaware of its place in history. Ritualistic devotion scents the air with smoldering resins drifting languidly from plebeian grottos through the windows of noble Roman studios carrying with it a sensation of stillness unattached to time.”