“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 me a wagon drawn by oxen had arrived and Verres’s lictors were loading it with everything.”

Sthenius was silent again, and I could readily imagine the shame of it for such a proud man: his wife wailing, the household traumatized, the dusty outlines where the statues once stood. The only sound in the study was the tap of my stylus on wax.