Kebes began swearing at Father, calling him names, accusing him of all kinds of vile crimes. Father began with a shallow cut down the breastbone, and then began carving the skin off. Kebes kept on yelling and taunting. Father didn’t respond and just kept on cutting, until Kebes shouted out “And Sokrates didn’t love you! And Simmea didn’t love you!” Then Father paused for a second and looked at him evenly.

“Both of them loved you, in their ways, but both of them loved me more.” Then he lowered his voice so the crowd couldn’t hear and said, “Now tell me, did Athene give you the syrinx? Why? When? And how did you learn that music? Tell me, and I’ll kill you quickly.”

“Oh you’re enjoying this!” Kebes shouted, and began another torrent of abuse.

I’m sure it’s not true that Father deliberately used the dull knives to make it take longer. It’s just that he didn’t have much experience with flaying the skin off a living man. Who does, except Kebes himself? I’d never considered before the way skin folds over muscles and fat and bones, certainly never seen it. Kebes abused him on and on for as long as he could, and Father kept asking his questions, patiently, but after a while it was mostly screaming.

I picked up Ficino’s hat and left then. I’d seen enough—too much. I don’t know how Father could stand it. He stood there skinning him alive, with parted lips and a half-smile, remote, intent on the work, peeling back the skin, seeming as calm as if he were composing music, repeating his questions. Neleus stayed beside him, spattered with blood, handing him new knives when he reached down for them. I couldn’t have done it. Kebes deserved to die, yes, and I would have killed him myself. But if I had been Father I’d have let my knife slip when I was near an artery, and ended it quickly.

Erinna left with me, and Auge entrusted her children to us. “I don’t think I could torture anyone to death,” I said as we went out. “Not even Kebes.” I could still hear his screams echoing around the marvelous acoustics of the colosseum.

“Kebes must have done it before. To other people,” Erinna said. “Did you know there were Young Ones killed today? And locals? There are bodies. Somebody will have to bury them.”

“Only murderers and heretics get flayed,” Auge’s daughter said.

“They’ll burn the bodies and put the ashes in urns,” Auge’s son said.

I nodded. It was a sad necessity we’d experienced a few times at home after art raids. “What are heretics anyway?”

“People who think the wrong thing about God and Yayzu,” she said.

My eyes met Erinna’s and we both grimaced. “And this seemed like such a nice place,” she said.