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?”