The first three rows of the tiered classroom were occupied.
Mr. West sat in the middle of the first row. He was in his early fifties, with graying hair combed meticulously into place.
Beside him sat a female teacher Richard did not recognize. She wore thin-rimmed glasses and held a pen between her fingers.
Seven or eight upperclassmen were scattered across the second row, the grade insignias on their uniform cuffs one year higher than Richard's.
One of the boys had an arm draped over the back of his chair, his eyes carrying the unmistakable air of someone here to watch a show.
Lillian sat in a corner of the third row.
When she saw Richard enter, her eyes blinked once before she turned her gaze back to her notebook.
Richard made a quick assessment in his mind.
This was a bigger setup than he had expected. Mr. Holland had not told him there would be an audience beforehand, probably on purpose.
At the official Cicero Cup competition, there would be hundreds of people seated below the stage.
If he could not handle even a dozen people, there was no point in going to the Imperial Capital.
"All right, Williams. Go on up."
Holland took a seat in the first row and lifted his chin toward the podium.
Richard set his backpack on a chair by the door and walked up to the podium.
Standing there and facing the room, he took in every expression before him.
Mr. West sat with his hands folded over his knees, looking calm, as though he were waiting for the opening of a play he did not particularly expect much from.
Richard guessed the female teacher was an instructor in Rhetoric Studies or public speaking. Her pen tip rested on the paper, ready to record something at any moment.
Some of the upperclassmen were whispering among themselves, while others had already leaned their heads against their chair backs, wearing expressions that said, "Start already and get it over with."
Lillian sat by the window at the edge of the third row, sunlight illuminating half her face brightly.
She turned to a fresh page in her notebook.
Mr. Holland had told him that Lillian had originally been the preferred choice, but she would get so nervous onstage that she could not speak without a script.
The spot had gone to Richard. For Lillian, that should have been a relief.
But after that relief, she probably still wanted to see just what level the person replacing her was at.
"First piece, paragraphs one through four." Holland marked out the section. "Full speech. Start from the beginning."
These were the most classic and also the most difficult passages.
Cicero had denounced Catiline to his face in the Roman Senate. The opening four paragraphs were the climax of the entire speech and the text most repeatedly studied over the centuries.
Richard took a breath.
The looseness in his lungs, opened up by the [Breathing] skill, let the air travel deeper than before.
His chest expanded, his diaphragm sank, and his vocal cords readied themselves.
"Quo usque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra?"
(Catiline, just how long will you abuse our patience?)
The sense of rhythm lay hidden within the cadence, the alternating long and short syllables forming a natural beat.
When Cicero wrote these sentences, he had arranged their word order for acoustic effect from the start.
"Quem ad finem sese effrenata iactabit audacia?"
(How far will your unbridled audacity carry itself?)
One of the boys in the second row pulled his arm back from the chair.
"Nihilne te nocturnum praesidium Palat... [several parallel clauses omitted] nihil horum ora vultusque moverunt?"
(Could not the night patrols on Palatine Hill move you? Could not the guards of the city move you? Could not the fear of the people move you?
Could not the gathering of all decent men move you? Could not this most fortified place where the Roman Senate convened move you? Could not the eyes and expressions of everyone present move you?)
This sentence was a textbook example of Cicero's parallel rhetoric:
Six instances of "nihil"—nothing—layered one upon another, moving from patrols to guards, from the people to upright men, from the setting to every face in the room.
Richard had made an adjustment while reciting it: he slightly extended the space between each "nihil," allowing the repetition to build momentum.
It was a technique he had worked out under Mr. Holland's guidance.
Parallelism could not be delivered in a flat, straightforward manner, or it would sound no different from reading a list.
True parallelism was a tide, each wave rising higher than the last. When the final wave receded, the silence it left behind was heavier than the sound.
Mr. West's posture did not change, but his fingers left his knees and moved onto the desk.
Lillian's pencil stopped.
She had only opened her notebook to make a few notes, to see whether he had any obvious memorization mistakes or pronunciation problems.
But after four sentences, she realized she was not qualified to judge him.
She placed her pencil on the notebook, folded her hands together, and began listening in earnest.
Richard continued, moving into the second and third paragraphs.
When the fourth paragraph ended, he drew back his gaze and let it settle on a scratch along the front edge of the podium.
After a brief silence in the classroom, Mr. West was the first to applaud, half a beat faster than Holland nearby.
The female teacher clapped a few times, then lowered her head to write in her notebook.
The upperclassmen's relaxed postures had vanished completely.
Lillian applauded as well.
Before coming here, she had anticipated only two possibilities.
The first was that Richard would perform terribly, confirming her judgment that giving him the spot was a waste.
The second was that he would do all right—able to recite it all, but rough around the edges. That had also been within expectations.
There was no third possibility. At least, she had believed her classmate was incapable of one.
Memorizing it was nothing remarkable, and accurate pronunciation could also come through hard practice.
But public speaking was not recitation. That kind of control over rhythm and breathing could not possibly be developed in just a few weeks.
When had this dead-last student become like this?
She could find no answer.
"Williams." Mr. West spoke.
"Sir."
"There is a small problem with how you handled the parallelism." Mr. West's reminder struck straight at the point.
"With the six nihil, you built progression through the first five, and the effect of pressing down on the final one was good.
But the interval between the third and fourth was too even, so the momentum leaked a little to the ear.
I suggest pausing slightly longer after the third, making the audience think the parallelism is about to end. Then when the fourth rises again, the impact will be greater."
Richard replayed the rhythm from moments ago in his mind.
An expert's eye truly was different. West, worthy of being the Subject Group Leader, had immediately pointed out something Richard himself had failed to notice.
"Understood. Thank you, sir."
West nodded and stood, saying something to Holland.
Richard's hearing was decent enough that he vaguely caught the words, "Worth a try."
After everyone had left, only Holland and Richard remained in the classroom.
Holland raised his teacup and took a sip.
"West has a sharp tongue. If he says 'worth a try,' take it as praise."
"You flatter me, sir."
"It is not flattery. You have improved too quickly."
Holland set his teacup on the podium and studied him. The astonishment in his gaze was stronger than it had been the last few times.
A student who had ranked near the bottom had brought his Latin up to this level in two weeks.
The word talent felt too simplistic. He had taught for twenty years and seen quite a few talented students.
Talent showed itself in a high starting point, quick learning, and fewer mistakes.
But Richard's situation was different.
This boy's starting point had been extremely low. Two weeks ago, he had still stumbled over basic declensions.
Yet his rate of improvement followed an accelerating curve, as though a steam engine had suddenly been installed in his mind, its output doubling every day.
Was this what people called finally getting it?
Holland did not press him for a reason.
Whatever the reason was, asking would be unnecessary. Finally getting it was a good thing.
"Come with me. There's something I need to give you."
Before you continue