by Jamie Buxton
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 travelers—skinny with cropped, rust-colored hair and dressed in a striped robe—joined them. He showed Big how to free the donkey from the harness 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 onto its back and, suddenly, the world went mad.
People began cheering, shouting, surging forward, surging 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 small man’s fellow travelers 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, then 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 letdown 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 Flea’s sense of deflation.
“But we can’t rob him now,” Flea said. “The magician’s seen us. He’s ruined our plan.”
Red looked at him, appalled. “Of course we can’t rob him now,” 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 under his arms, and carry them off. 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 toward 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 skyward 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 blazing gold rooftops of the Temple walls; 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 to 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 onto 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 around 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 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. The priests 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 Gilgal, 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 with 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 derisively. “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 a wonder child remained. Not as far as he could see, but Flea had to admit that the man was quite a cool customer. He 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 realized that it wasn’t just pickpockets who played with misdirection. It was magicians, too. Because 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 one: 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 russet-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 all knew about running out of money. When the magician reached in and pulled out a pebble they cheered and stamped their feet.
“Broke again,” the magician said, dropping the pebble at his feet. Then he added, “Unless my young friends can help?”
He pointed to Crouch and Halo, who had managed to worm their way through to the front of the crowd. The two could not have made a bigger contrast: Crouch bent double like an old crow and Halo with his fair skin, big dark eyes, and curly hair. Crouch frowned, then put a hand on Halo’s shoulder and pushed him gently forward.
The magician shook the purse upside down, then held it out to Halo. The boy approached it cautiously, snatched it like a starving dog and shook it, then handed it back. While the crowd laughed and pointed good-naturedly, Flea saw the magician slip the purse to Jude, who had moved smoothly up behind him. When he saw the purse again in the magician’s hands, it looked different. The switch had been made.
“Good,” the magician said. “Now then, what do you think is in the purse?”
“Nothing,” the crowd shouted.
“Nothing? Are you sure?”
“YES!”
“Child, what do you think?”
Halo looked up at him. “Nothing,” he said in his high voice. “Otherwise I’d have stolen it.”
More laughter.
“Would you like to look inside?” The magician handed it back.
Crouch held the purse open while Halo put his small hand inside and his face lit up. To gasps and cheers he pulled out a beautiful, smooth, ivory egg.
“Hand it back to me, friend.”
The magician closed his hands around the egg, blew on them, muttered a few words, and then opened his arms wide. A spotlessly white dove exploded into space and flapped its way into the blue sky. The crowd cheered again, before falling silent as the magician stooped low by Crouch’s side and whispered in his ear.
Grinning, Crouch reached into the purse that he was still holding. With a great show he pulled out a gold coin and he held it up. More laughter and cheering all around, then the magician raised his hands for silence.
Flea nodded in appreciation. A decent trick, good enough to con an easygoing crowd in a holiday mood. But not good enough to con him.
The priest hadn’t finished, though.
“Not so clever,” he sneered. “Not so clever at all. That dove was dedicated to God and you let it free. And as if defiling the Temple with your filth wasn’t enough, that coin tells us all we need to know about people like you. A Roman coin. The currency of our conquerors. You come to the Temple, the beating heart of our religion, and the only coin you can produce has the hated imperial stamp on it! What were people shouting at you? That you were the Master? Well, whose man are you, Yeshua? The people’s or the emperor’s?”
Rusty-haired Jude was watching the magician closely. Flea had made his way right next to him. He pressed up close and located exactly where the money bag was tied to Jude’s waistband. His light fingers began to work at the knot that held it.
The magician answered the priest for the first time. “You know the answer to that, my friend,” he said in a rich, level voice.
“But your coin’s got the emperor’s head on it!” The priest sounded triumphant.
The magician took the coin back from Crouch and looked at it closely. “So it has,” he said. “There’s the big man himself. Now, what do you think I should do with it?”
“Shove it where the sun don’t shine!” a heckler called out, and the magician laughed, a proper, warm laugh.
“I’d love to, but let’s see what the priest has to say, because we all know how much the Temple loves its money!”
A huge roar of appreciation—excellent for Flea. The knot was loosening. The money bag was almost free.
The magician waited for quiet, then took a step toward the priest, and another, until he was right in front of him and had to look up, like a child.
“You asked what had changed about me since I was last here, but I don’t think I really have changed that much. I think it’s this place that’s changed. You think that I’m somehow a lesser man for carrying an imperial coin, but you deal with it every day. Even worse, you try to make me insult the emperor while you live under his shadow all the time.”
He pointed to the parapet of the Roman fortress that loomed over the northern walls of the Temple. It was bristling with imperial soldiers. He pointed to the roof of the portico from which more soldiers looked down, as they did every feast day, ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble.
“Even the high priest has to beg the Roman commander for his ceremonial robes, and at the end of every festival he has to give them back so the commander can lock them in his storeroom!”
The crowd began to mutter. No one liked to be reminded of the power the Romans held over them.
“And you have the nerve to criticize me for using an imperial coin?” he continued. “The emperor can have his coin back, but what about the people? What about the coins in the Temple treasury? Coins poor farmers have sweated blood to earn and have starved themselves to bring here as taxes. Isn’t it enough that we pay taxes to feed the Imperial army? Do we have to pay for the Temple too? The Temple used to protect the people, but now it only protects itself. The Temple grows richer while the country grows poorer. The Temple clings on to Rome like a weak child hangs around a bully. This isn’t a temple. This is a market stall! Friends, if you want freedom, free yourselves from the Temple!”
With a practiced countryman’s flick, the magician threw the coin high in the air in the direction of the Fortress and started to walk to the southern colonnade, taking the crowd with him.
As he did so, Flea gave the string holding the money bag one last tug. But before he could grab it, Jude’s hand clamped down hard on his.
10
There was nothing he could do. Flea’s hand was around the purse; Jude’s hand was around his. He was stuck.
Caught.
Doomed.
“Not bad, little thief, not bad. But not good enough,” Jude whispered, looking down.
Flea looked at the crowd and saw how he was being left behind. He struggled, went limp, struggled again.
“And stop worming around or I’ll turn you in. What do you think the punishment will be? Will they cut off an ear, or will they just stone you? Ever been to a stoning? They bury you up to your neck in the sand and—”
“All right, all right!” Flea said between gritted teeth.
“Good. Now, we’re going to talk.”
“Why? What do you want from me?” A hard squeeze made him squeal.
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br /> “Not your place to ask,” Jude said, and Flea allowed himself to be dragged across to the low railing that separated the outer court from the inner. Only when they were there did Jude loosen his grip a little.
“I’m curious,” he said. “What on earth did you think you were doing?”
“What do you care?” Flea said.
He looked properly at the man with rust-colored hair. He had a thin, horsey face with long teeth. There was a star-shaped scar in the middle of one cheek and he appeared to have lost most of his teeth on that side of his face.
“About you? Nothing. But to be honest, I’d stick my head in boiling oil before I handed anyone over to the Temple Police, even my worst enemy.”
“If you don’t let me go, I’ll be your worst enemy!” Flea tried to kick him but could not reach.
The grip tightened again.
“All right, all right. I’m one of the Temple Boys,” Flea said. “We’re a gang. The boys on the bridge you helped—they were Big and Snot. The one who’s all hunched over, that’s Crouch. The pretty one is Halo. I’m—”
“You’re Flea.”
“How did you know my name?”
“Magic—what else? Actually, on the way here your friend Big was telling me about his gang. Apparently, all he has to do is snap his fingers and you’ll do anything he asks.” Long-toothed smile. “Now, can I let you go so we can talk? All right? Good.”
Flea flexed his hand while Jude put the money bag safely inside his satchel.
Jude rubbed his face and it sounded like a rock scraping on gravel. “Bottom of the heap, are you?”
“Yes,” Flea said reluctantly.
“Finding it hard?”
“I guess.”
“I know all about that,” Jude said. “Although my case is slightly different.” Flea looked at him with interest.
“You see, even though I’m the outsider now, I’m actually the original member of Yesh’s gang,” Jude continued. “Except because we’re grownups we don’t call it a gang, we call it a movement. And I’m not the fixer, I’m a facilitator. And we don’t go around doing tricks and talking to people, either. We’re reaching out, we’re engaging, we’re communicating. And worst of all, we have a plan to follow and a mission to fulfill. We’re showing people the way.”
