Imperium

garden, a collection of bronze statues, a town somewhere in Sicily, in the north—Thermae, that was it.
    “Sthenius of Thermae,” I said and held out my hand. “Welcome.”
    It was not my place to comment on his appearance, nor to ask what he was doing hundreds of miles from home, and in such obvious distress. I left him in the tablinum and went through to Cicero’s study. The senator, who was due in court that morning to defend a youth charged with parricide, and who would also be expected to attend the afternoon session of the Senate, was squeezing a small leather ball to strengthen his fingers, while being robed in his toga by his valet. He was listening to one letter being read out by young Sositheus, and at the same time dictating a message to Laurea, to whom I had taught the rudiments of my shorthand system. As I entered, he threw the ball at me—I caught it without thinking—and gestured for the list of callers. He read it greedily, as he always did. What had he caught overnight? Some prominent citizen from a useful tribe? A Sabatini, perhaps? A Pomptini? Or a businessman rich enough to vote among the first centuries in the consular elections? But today it was only the usual small fry, and his face gradually fell until he reached the final name.
    “Sthenius?” He interrupted his dictation. “He is that Sicilian, is he not? The rich one with the bronzes? We had better find out what he wants.”
    “Sicilians don’t have a vote,” I pointed out.
    “Pro bono,” he said, with a straight face. “Besides, he does have bronzes. I shall see him first.”
    So I fetched in Sthenius, who was given the usual treatment—the trademark smile, the manly double-grip handshake, the long and sincere stare into the eyes—then shown to a seat and asked what had brought him to Rome. I had started remembering more about Sthenius. We had stayed with him twice in Thermae, when Cicero heard cases in the town. Back then he had been one of the leading citizens of the province, but now all his vigor and confidence had gone. He needed help, he announced. He was facing ruin. His life was in terrible danger. He had been robbed.
    “Really?” said Cicero. He was half-glancing at a document on his desk, not paying too much attention, for a busy advocate hears many hard-luck stories. “You have my sympathy. Robbed by whom?”
    “By the governor of Sicily, Gaius Verres.”
    The senator looked up sharply.
    There was no stopping Sthenius after that. As his story poured out, Cicero caught my eye and performed a little mime of note taking—he wanted a record of this—and when Sthenius eventually paused to draw breath he gently interrupted and asked him to go back a little, to the day, almost three months earlier, when he had first received the letter from Verres. “What was your reaction?”
    “I worried a little. He already had a… reputation . People call him—his name meaning boar—people call him the Boar with Blood on His Snout. But I could hardly refuse.”
    “You still have this letter?”
    “Yes.”
    “And in it did Verres specifically mention your art collection?”
    “Oh yes. He said he had often heard about it and wanted to see it.”
    “And how soon after that did he come to stay?”
    “Very soon. A week at most.”
    “Was he alone?”
    “No, he had his lictors with him. I had to find room for them as well. Bodyguards are always rough types, but these were the worst set of thugs I ever saw. The chief of them, Sextius, is the official executioner for the whole of Sicily. He demands bribes from his victims by threatening to botch the job—you know, mangle them—if they do not pay up beforehand.” Sthenius swallowed and started breathing hard. We waited.
    “Take your time,” said Cicero.
    “I thought Verres might like to bathe after his journey, and then we could dine—but no, he said he wanted to see my collection straightaway.”
    “You had some very fine pieces, I remember.”
    “It was my life, senator, I cannot put it plainer. Thirty years spent traveling and haggling. Corinthian and Delian bronzes, pictures, silver—nothing I did not handle and choose myself. I had Myron’s The Discus Thrower, and The Spear Bearer by Polycleitus. Some silver cups by Mentor. Verres was complimentary. He said it deserved a wider audience. He said it was good enough for public display. I paid no attention till we were having dinner on the terrace and I heard a noise from the inner courtyard. My steward told