The lower fields are more a desolate stretch of land than any fertile ground. Pressed hard against the looming Wall of Aurelian, this is the last gasp of cultivation for the inops domum — their only hope at food for most of the year. Here, the soil is thin and unforgiving, not much more than a patchwork of stunted crops eking out a hardscrabble existence beneath the relentless sun. Rows of shrivelled wheat and crooked vegetables stand in uneven lines, barely taller than the wild grasses that encroach the fields' edges. Birds pick at the meagre offerings, barely deterred by the half-hearted scarecrows placed haphazardly among the earth, and ragged figures toil from dawn to dusk to try and get something out of the ground. It appears hopeless to many, but to those who call this area home, it is exactly that: a last bastion of hope against the relentlessness of death.