I’m trapped by the shore of the Euxine, that misnomer, and the truly sinister coast of the Scythian Sea. Innumerable tribes round about threaten fierce war, and think it’s a disgrace to exist without pillage. Nowhere’s safe outside: the hill itself’s defended by fragile walls, and the ingenuity of its siting. The enemy descends, when least expected, like birds,
hardly seen before they’re taking away their plunder. Often when the gates are shut, inside, we gather arrows that fell in the middle of the streets.

- Ovid