This would test their victory and joy. They lifted up their voices and begged the Singer come.

XX

It’s strange that Spartacus forgot to tell his brothers in rebellion that they would all be crucified. When there are too many crosses there are none.

A drop of blood is ghastly.

A sea of blood accepted.

We weep above a single dying beast but whistle past a slaughterhouse.

You are my aide,” said Sarkon to the Builder. “You must be the one to see the mandate is carried out.”

“But why?” asked Praxis.

“Because the children should be cared for in a special way before their parents die in the great stadium. It hardly seems humane to throw them to the beasts; they are so young.”

“Oh, come now,” the Builder then enjoined with mock compassion. “Since when have you become concerned about the welfare of children?”

“There is a fear that if the beasts in the arena seize and devour a small child they may not even lunge at those adults we wish destroyed.”

“But what of mercy? Do we simply tear them from their mothers’ arms?”

“If they will not give them up in peace,” said Sarkon.

“Peace … peace … No … I cannot do it.”

“You will do it,” Sarkon shouted in growing rage. “I finished up your unicorn in a night. You promised me your soul. Have you forgotten, Sculptor? I own you now.”

“But the children?” he protested, somewhat weaker than before. “The little children?”

“They are the slime and filth of lower Urbis. They do not trust in unicorns or mountain gods. All such atheists must die.”

“But you do not believe in unicorns or gods and yet you live,” said Praxis.

“Nor you, Builder. But your unbelief will make the job I give you easier. Look at it this way: If there really are no gods, there’s no morality or crime. And without gods, what difference does it make? The children you slay are a small function of flesh, tiny claw and organ—a passing movement in the sea of time. They are machines which eat the general welfare. In slaying them, therefore, you are a saint who stops their pointless eating of the common good. Yes, Praxis, drag them from their mothers and do not spare them for their screams. Here are your orders for the prison wardens.”

Praxis was ripped by shame, and burned in furious hatred towards Sarkon, but he took the scroll and left. The children would be placed in the chambers of a cave and poisoned in the fumes of root moss.

Praxis trudged the heavy furlongs to the prison yards in agony of soul—a soul that he no longer owned. He had decried all serious belief. Now he had grave doubts about his doubts.

Once in the prison, he read the orders from the scroll and shouted to the crowds that huddled in the cells: “Every child of less than seven summers must be yielded up. You have the promise of the state that they will die most mercifully in the caverns of Karnos.”