And so it came about that, one spring morning just after dawn, when the straits of the Carpathian Sea were as smooth and milky as a pearl (you must forgive these occasional flourishes: I have read too much Greek poetry to maintain an austere Latin style), we were rowed across from the mainland to that ancient, rugged island, where the stocky figure of Molon himself awaited us on the quayside.

This Molon was a lawyer, originally from Alabanda, who had pleaded in the Roman courts brilliantly, and had even been invited to address the Senate in Greek-an unheard-of honor-after which he had retired to Rhodes and opened his rhetorical school. His theory of oratory, the exact opposite of the Asiatics’, was simple: don’t move about too much, hold your head straight, stick to the point, make ’em laugh, make ’em cry, and when you’ve won their sympathy, sit down quickly-“for nothing,” said Molon, “dries more quickly than a tear.” This was far more to Cicero ’s taste, and he placed himself in Molon’s hands entirely.

Molon’s first action was to feed him that evening a bowl of hard-boiled eggs with anchovy sauce, and, when Cicero had finished that-not without some complaining, I can tell you-to follow it with a lump of red meat, seared over charcoal, accompanied by a cup of goat’s milk. “You need bulk, young man,” Molon told him, patting his own barrel chest. “No mighty note was ever sounded by a feeble reed.” Cicero glared at him but dutifully chewed until his plate was empty, and that night, for the first time in months, slept soundly. (I know this because I used to sleep on the floor outside his door.)

At dawn, the physical exercises began. “Speaking in the Forum,” said Molon, “is comparable to running in a race. It requires stamina and strength.” He threw a fake punch at Cicero, who let out a loud oof! and staggered backward, almost falling over.