“Do you know who that was?” asked Cicero, coming over to us. Far from being cast down, he appeared highly amused. “That was Verres’s father. He has promised to write to his son, urging him to drop the prosecution, if we agree not to bring the matter back to the Senate.”

Poor Sthenius was so relieved, I thought he might die from gratitude. He dropped to his knees and began kissing the senator’s hands. Cicero made a sour face and gently raised him to his feet. “Really, my dear Sthenius, save your thanks until I have actually achieved something. He has only promised to write, that is all. It is not a guarantee.”

Sthenius said, “But you will accept the offer?”

Cicero shrugged. “What choice do we have? Even if I retable the motion, they will only talk it out again.”

I could not resist asking why, in that case, Hortensius was bothering to offer a deal at all.

Cicero nodded slowly. “Now that is a good question.” There was a mist rising from the Tiber, and the lamps in the shops along the Argiletum shone yellow and gauzy. He sniffed the damp air. “I suppose it can only be because he is embarrassed. Which in his case, of course, takes quite a lot. Yet it seems that even he would prefer not to be associated too publicly with such a flagrant criminal as Verres. So he is trying to settle the matter quietly. I wonder how much his retainer is from Verres: it must be an enormous sum.”

“Hortensius was not the only one who came to Verres’s defense,” I reminded him.

“No.” Cicero glanced back at the Senate House, and I could see that something had just occurred to him. “They are all in it together, aren’t they? The Metellus brothers are true aristocrats-they would never lift a finger to help anyone apart from themselves, unless it was for money.