Temple Boys

‘Believe that, do you?’ The Butcher Boy looked over his shoulder and called out to a minion who was watching his back, ‘De lickle Temple Boys believe in magic!’ He turned to Big. ‘Suckers. Get on out of it. But if I see you anywhere near the Temple, you’re dead.’

Flushed and furious, Big pushed Flea out of the way and led the Temple Boys across the square.

5

As soon as they were out of sight of the other gang, Big grabbed Flea and pinned him against the wall.

‘What was that about?’ he demanded. His breath coated Flea’s face like a sour mask.

‘I got you out of trouble, didn’t I?’

‘You made me look like a prat. I’m not scared of the Butcher Boys.’

‘Maybe not you, but the rest of us wouldn’t stand a chance. And anyway, if the Butcher Boys are in the Square, the rest of the gangs will be there as well: the Water Gang, the Mad Dogs, the Holy Rollers . . . They’ll squeeze us out wherever we go. There won’t be a decent pitch left.’

Flea knew he was talking sense, but also knew that might not save him. He should have kept his mouth shut.

Silence, then: ‘I had it sorted,’ Big said. ‘Don’t you forget it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Flea said. ‘Really sorry.’

He felt Big’s grip on his tunic loosen.

‘And what was that crap you were on about? About a magician?’ Big looked suspicious.

Flea opened his eyes and tried to look honest and sincere. ‘It’s true. I swear it. The best magician in the world is coming to town by the Black Valley Bridge.’

‘How come we haven’t heard?’

‘He’s coming from up north, from Gilgad or somewhere. A merchant told the Grinderman and the Grinderman told me. I just thought, what with the crowds and them all being tourists, there’ll be rich pickings.’

Big dropped Flea. ‘Rich pickings, you reckon? Robbing tourists?’

Flea nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. They’ll all be gawping at the magician.’

Big almost cracked a smile. ‘And that’s why you’re an insect and will always be an insect. We’re not going to waste our time stealing pennies off out-of-towners. This magician’s from Gilgad, right, the other side of the back end of beyond. He’ll be clueless. What does he do after he performs all his tricks? Well?’

Crouch was the quickest to catch on.

‘He’ll take a collection.’

‘Exactly. He’ll empty everyone’s pockets, and then what do we do? I’ll tell you. We’ll empty his. We’re the Temple Boys. We know how to handle a conjuror. We’ll give him a welcome to the City he’ll never forget.’

Big went through the plan. Red was lookout again. Crouch and Halo were to get the magician’s attention by asking a lot of stupid questions; he and Little Big would work out who was carrying the purse. Clump, Snot, Hole-in-the-Head, Gaga and Crutches would surround them, then Grab would cut the purse free and Smash would leg it. They’d all rendezvous back at the shelter at noon.

‘What about me?’ Flea asked.

‘What about you?’ Big answered. ‘You can just . . . hop off.’

He looked around the rest of the gang until he got a couple of sniggers. Then they set off for the Black Valley Bridge.

6

The Black Valley ran below the eastern City walls. To reach the bridge from Temple Square the gang hurried alongside the western temple walls, turned right into the blaring chaos of the sheep market with its pens and purification baths and headed for the eastern gate.

The crowd was surging and chaotic. Clearly they weren’t the first people to hear about the coming of the magician.

In the choke point of the narrow city gate, Flea found himself wedged between a porter carrying a sack of grain and a fat man’s belly. ‘Is he here? Do you really think he’s the Chosen One?’ a voice called out.

‘That’s what I heard,’ the porter close to Flea answered. ‘Miracle worker. There was this leper up at Bethany: one touch and he was better. He made a man with a withered leg go dancing up and down the street – completely cured – and he does eyesight too!’

‘Miracle worker?’ the fat man jeered. ‘He’s got to be a lot more than that if he’s the Chosen One. King David – he was the Chosen One, and he was a proper warrior and a king as well. You think this conjuror can match up to King David? Next you’ll be saying he walks on water!’

That drew a big laugh from the crowd; then all other words were lost in the rising din.

Flea freed himself from the crush and pushed on. Ahead, he saw Red climbing a tree near the bridge. Flea shinned up after him until he was far above head height and could see all the way across the Black River Valley.

An old stone bridge crossed the steep valley in a single span. Both the bridge and the road on either side were blocked solid. Gawkers ambling out of the City to see the action met out-of-towners streaming into the City for the Feast. All the passing places on the bridge were occupied by black-robed Wild People selling souvenirs to the tourists. Imperial soldiers had set up a roadblock to try and take matters in hand, but were just making things worse. To complete the chaos, a donkey pulling a cart into the City had met a camel carrying a mountainous bundle of hay out of it. Neither was prepared to pass the other – or reverse.

From high in his tree, Flea surveyed the scene cheerfully. His plan had worked. By a mixture of luck and guile he had persuaded the Temple Boys to do what he wanted. If the day went well, surely he’d be properly accepted by them. He felt happy.

‘Bloody tourists,’ he said to Red. ‘Don’t see how anyone’s going to get through this.’

Red ignored him.

‘You know Big’s plan to rob the magician? I thought –’

Red said, ‘Leave it.’ He snapped off a long, thin twig and started poking a man’s turban with it. The man turned on his neighbour; angry words were exchanged. Red gave a stiff lopsided grin, wiped a tear away from the corner of his ruined eye and handed the stick to Flea to have a go.

Flea tried to get the conversation going again. ‘So, how long do you give this magician before the Temple Police throw him out of town? A day?’ He dropped the twig on the angry man’s head.

Red snorted. ‘Half a day if he’s lucky, but it won’t be down to the Temple Police. This is the Feast. The City’s going mad. If he’s a troublemaker the Imps won’t even let him cross the bridge. You watch.’

They stopped for a moment to watch the Imps, Roman Imperial soldiers, failing to organise the chaos on the bridge.

‘There seems to be a lot of people to meet him.’

‘Maybe he’s that good,’ Red answered.

Flea shook his head. ‘If he’s that good, why haven’t we heard of him before? I heard someone asking if he was the Chosen One. What was all that about?’

‘Shut up, insect,’ snapped Red. ‘Can’t you stop talking? Can’t you stop . . . thinking?’

Flea did shut up, but quickly began to feel bored. The sun was weak, but the sky was bright white and made his eyes water. He narrowed them to slits and scanned the landscape on the other side of the bridge, the rocky slopes of the Black River Valley and then the pale scar of the road winding down from a notch in the soft shoulders of Olive Tree Hill.

He couldn’t stop thinking of what he’d just heard in the crowd. Is he the Chosen One? What if this magician really was someone special? Suppose he was a great king in disguise, a cross between King David the Giant-Killer and King Solomon the Magician? That really would be something, and in years to come he’d be able to say, Ah, yes, I remember when the Chosen One first came to the City. Of course, no one had any idea who he really was and I had a bit of a job persuading my friends to come and see him, but I had a feeling, you see. And you know what we were planning to do? Rob him.

As Flea drifted off on his own train of thought, the clouds broke up and the sun pierced through. Suddenly, there were clear blue skies to the east, but for a single small cloud. If he squinted and forgot the cloud looked like a dog, he could almost imagine it as a chariot drawn by a winged horse, and he could almost definitely see the magician in the back with a golden bow and a quiver of burning arrows.

And now the winged horse was pulling back its lips to show long red teeth, jagged as saws. The feathers on its wings were as sharp as swords – one sweep of them and Roman heads would tumble. But the archers on the battlements had seen the threat. Now they were pulling their bows back into quivering arcs.

‘Watch out!’ Flea cried. And as the arrows leapt upwards in a black swarm the magician raised his right arm. Fire shot from an outstretched finger and he drew it across the blue dome of the sky to create a blazing barrier so the archers’ arrows flamed and fell in charred twists. Now he started shooting his own arrows. They smashed into the battlements, turning soldiers into flaming, screaming, dancing monsters before they tumbled to their deaths.

The magician reined in his snorting steed and circled Flea’s tree in his chariot, wreathed in smoke, shining with strength, and at the sight of him, the crowd fell to the ground, wailing and moaning in terror.

Only Flea – Flea the Brave, Flea the Magnificent – dared to meet his calm and level gaze.

‘Well done, courageous Flea. You have saved me, you have saved your friends and you have saved your City. As your reward, Flea . . . Flea . . . FLEA, you idiot! Wake up! What are you doing up there?’

Flea blinked and looked down. Big and most of the rest of the gang were at the bottom of the tree.

‘What’s going on, insect?’

‘Nothing,’ Flea said. ‘Nothing.’

‘Well, since you’re up there, keep watching! Don’t go all la la like you usually do.’

Big opened his mouth into a stupid gape and rolled his eyes up into his head. Flea scowled across the crowded bridge.

And really did see something.

7

On the other side of the valley, a dense little group was moving down the road from Olive Tree Hill with purpose. People seemed to be clearing the road ahead of it. Above the background noise Flea thought he could hear faint cheers.

‘Something’s happening!’ he called down to Big, who grabbed Snot. Together, they wormed their way through the crowd towards the bridge. Halo scrabbled up into the tree with Flea and Red. Flea helped him on to the branch and held him tight. Halo was inclined to get excited and fall off things.

In the middle of the bridge, the stuck donkey had managed to back the cart hard against the parapet, the camel was attempting to turn sideways and a man carrying a pitcher of water was stuck between them, trying desperately not to let it fall. At the same time, the heaving press of people was stopping any man or beast from going backwards or forwards and more people were trying to squeeze on to the bridge all the time. To cap matters off, Flea saw Big and Snot jump on to the cart and start stamping and yelling in imitation of the driver.

Problem. They were making so much noise they’d attracted the attention of the Imps. The two Temple Boys on the cart showed clearly above the heads of the crowd and made easy targets for the soldiers, who started to shoulder their way towards them, all leather plates and polished buckles.

And now something strange was happening on the far side of the bridge, behind the soldier’s backs.

The little group Flea had seen had arrived and the crowd started moving to either side of the road. Some of the people bowed their heads. Others put their hands across their chests as a mark of respect. Some even knelt, so at last Flea could see them from his vantage point . . . Not a wizard in his flaming chariot with an army of demons, but a dozen or so of the shabbiest travellers that Flea had ever seen.

This was the Chosen One and his followers? This bunch of dusty tramps? But Flea couldn’t be disappointed for too long, because things on the bridge were looking horrible for Big and Snot. They were still jumping up and down on the cart, but with their backs to the approaching Imps. They had no idea of the danger they were in.

Flea saw the Imps look at each other, saw the metal flash as they drew swords. The man with the pitcher dropped it and it shattered. He yelled a warning at the boys on the cart, but could not make himself heard. Then a small man in a dusty grey robe was suddenly standing between the soldiers and the boys, hands outstretched, palms out.

He was one of the travellers and Flea couldn’t work out how he had moved so fast.

The Imps stopped and stared, swords still raised. Flea held his breath. The Imps would smack him with their shields, batter him with their sword hilts, and when they’d finished with him they’d turn on Big and Snot.

But the small man just stood there and smiled. And smiled. And smiled.

8

The soldiers looked at each other. Sunlight glinted on their swords.

‘What do you want?’ one of them asked the small man in his harsh, foreign accent. His voice carried over the hushed crowd.

‘I’m sorry, friends,’ the small man said. ‘I just thought I might be able to help with this traffic jam.’

He had narrow shoulders and a dramatic head, with long hair swept back from a widow’s peak and dark, dark eyes set between a heavy brow and a boxer’s cheekbones. His tunic might have been brown once and was now fading to grey, or perhaps it had been grey and was so stained it seemed brown.

At this moment the donkey gave a short, despairing honk and sat down. The cart tipped over, throwing Snot and Big down so they sprawled in the dust between the small man and the Imps.

The crowd had fallen silent and the mood had changed. All eyes were on the Imps. People were watchful, but ready. Flea saw the Imps’ eyes darting to the right and the left as they were forced to reconsider. No help anywhere near. Massively outnumbered.

They slid their swords back into scabbards. ‘Get on with it, then.’

The small man helped Big to his feet, then Snot, who sniffed marshily and gobbed.

‘Nice,’ the small man said. Then, ‘Tell you what, why don’t you unhitch that unfortunate beast and walk it over here to me? Think you could do that?’ A showman’s smile lit up every part of his face. Big pointed to himself, then at the donkey. ‘Me?’ he asked.

‘Only if you’re not too busy,’ the small man said.

Another of the travellers – skinny with cropped, rust-coloured hair and dressed in a striped robe – joined them. He showed Big how to free the donkey from the shafts and Snot how to calm it. Then Big and Snot led the donkey out of the chaos and over to the far side of the bridge. The small man climbed on to its back and, suddenly, the world went mad.

People began cheering, shouted, surged forwards, surged back. On the other side of the road a man shinned up a dusty date palm. He started pulling the leaves and branches from it and throwing them down. People caught them. Some waved them; others threw them under the hooves of the donkey. The man’s fellow travellers pushed ahead of him, somehow forcing a clear way down the middle of the bridge.

‘Did you see that? Did you see what the magician did?’ Red shouted.

‘Is that him? Are you sure? He just looks like a tramp to me,’ said Flea.

‘He only went and saved Big and Snot. He only stopped the Imps arresting them. He only rubbed their Roman noses in the dirt.’ Red slapped Flea on the back, held up Halo so he could have a look, slapped Flea again.

Flea could not get excited. Disappointment didn’t do justice to his feelings; betrayal was more like it. This small man with the showman’s smile could not be a famous magician, let alone the Chosen One. It was the biggest let-down of his life.

‘That can’t really be him, can it?’

‘You’re the expert,’ Red said. ‘You brought us here.’

Which was true and just added to the sense of deflation.

‘But we can’t rob him now,’ Flea said. ‘He’s seen us. He’s ruined our plan.’

Red looked at him, appalled. ‘Of course we can’t rob him,’ he said. ‘He just saved Big and Snot from the Imps.’

‘But –’

‘Forget about the plan. This is better.’ Red dropped Halo to the ground as the donkey passed underneath them, then followed behind, punching the air and shouting.

The cheers rose louder and louder as the magician, still riding the donkey, approached the City, the crowd trailing behind him like a long cloak. Still sitting in his tree, Flea saw Red say something to one of the magician’s followers – a tall, broad-shouldered man with a face like a twisted root. To his amazement he saw the man turn back, stoop, pick up Crouch and Halo, and carry them off under his arms.

He felt a jab of jealousy and resentment, but not wanting to be left alone, he dropped from the tree and caught up with the crowd as it streamed towards the Temple.

9

Flea was a vulture hanging on broad, ragged wings high above the City.

He was drawn by the stench of blood. His broad wing tips feathered the column of warm, meaty air that roared skywards from the Temple’s fire altar. His keen eyes scanned the courts below and nothing escaped his piercing gaze: the livestock pens to the north where the newly washed lambs glowed white; the high towers and dazzling gold rooftops of the Temple; the crowds that milled in the huge outer court; the gathering press of people in the inner courts; and, right in the middle, the inner sanctuary where the fire blazed and the slaughter floor was wet and red. A dozen lambs slaughtered at a time, a hundred doves; thousands killed in a day. Mountains of flesh, fields of gore, rivers of blood.

But for what? People never said, but Flea sometimes wondered if the Temple’s invisible god had a vulture’s tastes and greed. Or maybe not quite a vulture, which preferred raw flesh to cooked and was always hungry. Apparently the god of the Temple only visited the Sanctuary once a year. Maybe he didn’t have to eat. Maybe he just liked to smell the meat.

The rumbling in his stomach brought Flea back to earth when he reached Temple Square. Well, he did have to eat, and one of the reasons he usually kept away from the Temple was that the smells from the fire altar always reminded him of how hungry he was.

He took stock of the situation from his level, which was approximately halfway up everyone else’s. The magician, his followers and the enormous crowd had disappeared into the Temple, forcing their way through the tunnels that carried them up, up, up to the level of the first huge courtyard.

Flea had missed them, which meant none of them could have stopped to ritually cleanse themselves. Usually that was enough to get you barred from the Temple, but the guards must have looked at the crowd and decided it was too dangerous to try and stop it. What was going on?

He washed his hands and feet at the communal pool and splashed the worst of the dirt off his face. He forced his way into the middle of a group of gawking tourists – out of sight of the guards – and let them sweep him up through the vaulted hall and on into the Temple itself.

The outer court covered the entire top of the Holy Mountain and was like another world, a flat bright land of white flagstones, bounded by painted pillars, hemmed by golden rooftops. It had its own noise: a buzz of holiness and a hum of chants, pierced by cries and shouts.

Right in front of Flea, a fanatic from the northern desert – one of the Ranting Dunkers – was screaming about the end of the Temple, the end of the City and the end of everything! The farmers surrounding him seemed more interested in the insect life in his hair than his words and Flea wondered how long he’d last before the Police threw him out.

Flea climbed on to a wicker chest crammed with black-market doves and looked around. To his right a class of trainee priests were humming like bees and swaying like wheat in the breeze as they recited words from the Holy Book. To his left parents rested, while their children played tag round the pillars of the colonnade and kicked the priests’ shadows up the arse. Behind him, official money changers were yelling out their rates, and dealers were trying to entice the crowds to buy their doves and lambs (All blessed! All perfect! All pure!) for sacrifice.

But straight ahead and close to the entrance of the inner courts was a surging knot of people. Flea jumped down, ran across the marble flagstones and wriggled through the crush to the front. The crowd was pressed around a clear space where the magician was being confronted by two priests from the Temple. They were plump and sleek, white robes shining, oiled hair gleaming. ‘So, what are you calling yourself these days?’ one of the priests asked in a loud, carrying voice. ‘Yeshua, the Great Conjuror of Gilgad, or Master? Don’t tell me you want people to call you Lord!’ he laughed.

Flea was taken aback. First he was the Chosen One. Now he was Master or Lord. Right then, in contrast to the priests, the magician looked even smaller and dirtier than he had on the bridge.

‘Oh, and don’t be surprised that we know who you are,’ the priest continued sarcastically. ‘I remember when you were considered a bit of a star: the wonder child who toddled up those steps into the Council Chamber twenty-five years ago and kept the old men riveted with your wisdom. But you couldn’t cut it, could you? Couldn’t stick the course. Or do you really expect us to believe that you prefer to tramp around with a band of tarts, thieves and collaborators?’

Interesting, Flea thought and he peered at the magician to see if any traces of Wonder Child remained. Not as far as he could see, but Flea had to admit that he was quite a cool customer. The man had lowered his eyes and was idly tracing shapes on the flagstones with his toe.

The priest blustered on. ‘We’re waiting, Yeshua. Did you hear my question? Or do we have to pay you to talk these days?’

Everyone was watching now and Flea began to find the whole thing very interesting indeed. In fact, the hair on the back of his neck was prickling because he had suddenly realised that it wasn’t just pickpockets that played with misdirection. It was magicians too. Even though the magician was saying nothing, he had the eyes of the crowd, and the less he spoke the more they stared at him.

Flea let his eyes drift around, trying to work out what was really happening.

There!

The rusty-haired man with the striped robes who had helped Big and Snot with the donkey was the only person in the crowd not looking at the magician. Instead, he was rummaging gently in his shoulder bag.

The priest was growing annoyed. ‘I’m disappointed,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your life as a tramp and a beggar has addled your brain because I thought you came here to talk. I know, let’s see if you can answer a direct question. How about this: have you got any money on you, or do you think you’re so special that you don’t have to pay Temple tax like all these good people around us?’

While the priest babbled on, Flea worked his way through the crowd until he was close to the rusty-haired assistant. He watched like a mouse might watch a cat.

‘I repeat,’ the priest said. ‘Have you got any money on you?’

Success! As the priest mentioned money, the assistant’s right hand strayed to his belt and patted the place where he had hidden his money bag.

Flea smiled. The rest of the gang might have blown their chances of robbing the magician, but he’d show them how it was done.

And now, better still, the magician reacted. A simple, sweet smile softened his rough features and he turned to the red-haired man: ‘Brother Jude, you’re in charge of our savings. Anything left in the purse?’

With a wry expression, Jude reached into the shoulder bag and pulled out a limp leather pouch fastened with a drawstring. He tossed it to the magician, who caught it, held a hand up for silence and shook it. Laughter erupted – the crowd knew all about running out of money. When the magician reached in and pulled out a pebble they cheered and stamped their feet.