by Jamie Buxton
“That’s enough from you,” Shim snapped. “Do you really think I care about your squalid little schemes? The lamb will be delivered from the sheep market later. For that money you can be here to receive it. Is that clear?”
The door was pulled open and there were heavy creaks on the stairs. Flea watched through the open treads of the staircase as Shim’s bare, cracked heels descended, then the landlord’s. He waited. Shim was walking off toward the city walls; the landlord was disappearing into the inn. Flea thought for a second. Jude had told him to report back when he found out where Shim was going, but suppose he was on his way somewhere else? Surely he should find out where. Surely Jude would want to know that.
Shim was walking with even greater purpose now, so Flea scurried behind as fast as he could. The man was heading for the western gates closest to the Skull, a bare hillock of stone scoured and hollowed by quarrying, and now used by the Romans for public executions.
Flea had never left the city in this direction. He’d gone scavenging in the Pleasure Gardens on the slopes of Olive Tree Hill—people always left bits of their picnics behind—but that was about it.
Here the landscape was bare and dusty. The road to the Skull was empty and Flea had to keep his distance. The path climbed. There were no crosses on it today—the Romans tried to avoid executions in the run-up to the feast—and the mid-morning air was clear. In the distance, a pale road snaked between rocky hills. A line of camels showed up on it like carved toys, the red threads of their decorated halters bright as spring flowers.
The sight of them brought Flea up short.
There was a world outside the walls where life still carried on, utterly separate from the struggle on the city streets. It had never struck him before, but now he thought, If the camels are coming from somewhere, they must be going somewhere too. Like a fresh, sharp taste he had never had before, or a dreamy scent carried on a warm breeze, a sense of freedom suddenly gripped him. He didn’t have to live his life scurrying through these streets like a rat through a tunnel. He could set out on that road, he could pass the camels heading for the city, and nod to the camel driver, and in front of him would be … would be … what?
He shook his head. He couldn’t waste time thinking about things like that. He had a job to do. He had the chance of earning money two days in a row. You didn’t turn down opportunities like that. Even so, he kept half an eye on the camels as he followed Shim, as if by watching them, part of him could be carried far, far away.
Shim followed the road around the Skull. It narrowed to a dusty path then burrowed straight into the lower quarry, whose pitted walls had been dug out for tombs.
Flea slowed. If he followed Shim in there he would be walking into a dead end, and he had no desire to confront Shim face-to-face. Shim might even suspect that he was doing it for Jude. Flea looked around and spotted a path that would take him to the top of the cliff so he could look down.
By the time Flea had reached the top and crawled to the edge, Shim was talking to the tomb’s watchman, who was pointing up to the opposite side of the quarry. The tombs were roughly aligned in two levels on the wall, and as Flea watched, Shim started to climb the rough scaffolding to the upper layer.
“I tried to warn him, but he went ahead and bought it anyway. He’s been well and truly swindled.” The watchman had cupped his hands to his mouth to call up and his words bounced back off the quarry walls to Flea. “More money than sense, that one. Bought the whole row. Useless. Waste of money. Cracks in the ceiling. Cracks in the floor. Whole place has been over-quarried. Look, I’m just the watchman. I keep the grave robbers away. I’m not meant to do quality control, but complaints always seem to come back to me.”
Shim called down from the upper level of the scaffolding, “And the rock that goes across the entrance. How does that work?”
“You just roll it across, but like I said—”
“Can one man do it?”
“Big guy could. Don’t see why not.”
Why is he looking at a tomb? Flea wondered. What’s this got to do with—? But he never finished the thought. He heard the crunch of feet on gravel, smelled old smoke, and in the same instant was buried in the heavy folds of a large net.
24
“What have we here?”
Flea tried to kick out but the net held him. The more he struggled, the worse the tangle of arms and legs and knotted rope.
He craned his head around and saw a Roman soldier, who stilled him by placing a hobnailed sandal on his back.
“You see, this is why it’s so important to get out and see things for oneself. Such interesting things happen,” a voice said. Flea turned his head the other way and saw the tall, smiling man who had tailed Jude into the covered market. His ankles were on a level with Flea’s nose. They were veiny and his shins were dusty. He spoke Flea’s language with only a hint of an accent.
Then he gave an order in Latin. The soldier untangled Flea from the net, grasped Flea’s waist with two enormous hands covered in small blond hair, and lifted him up. When Flea wriggled the soldier squeezed so hard Flea thought he might break in half.
“What’s going on?” Flea managed to get enough breath to say. “Aren’t I allowed to have a nap?”
Eyebrows arching comically above his thin, tortoise smile, the man backhanded him across the face. Flea felt the crunch of gristle and a sudden warm trickle of blood.
“Stupid question,” hissed the man. “Of course you’re allowed to rest, and you’re allowed to spy, and I am allowed to hit you. At least, I can’t see anyone stopping me. Let’s carry you down and see what our friend Shimon has to say.”
He rolled the name around his mouth a couple of times as if to get the taste of it, then spat. In spite of the pain and the shock, it struck Flea as odd that this man knew who Shim was.
They caught up with Shim as he was leaving the tombs. He looked shattered, Flea thought, as if the skin on his face had loosened and slipped from the bones. When he saw Flea, still held prisoner by the soldier, he gave a cry.
“What?” the thin man asked. “Does that feeble bleat mean you know this thing?”
“I didn’t mean … I mean, I was surprised … I … He’s bleeding.” Shim sounded flustered.
“Isn’t he just? Now, I repeat. Do you know this thing?”
“Yes.” Shim would not meet Flea’s eye.
“Any idea why it might be following you?”
Flea tried to look innocent, but his face felt as if it had been knocked lopsided by the blow and all he could manage was a sort of leer. His nose was beginning to ache.
“It, I mean, he’s a charity case,” Shim said. “Part of a street gang. We fed him and the rest of them last night. Perhaps he thought he could hit me up for some money.”
“Ah yes, the meal at the house of Yusuf of Ramathain, if my intelligence is right. Your leader’s uncle, I believe?” The man went still, as if a thought had struck him. “Oddly enough, this horrid little thing looks familiar to me.”
He gave an order in Latin. The soldier held Flea out at arm’s length while the thin man frisked him expertly and roughly. His hand pounced on the little ivory-handled spike hidden inside Flea’s tunic. His fingers worked it open.
“Ahh.”
It was a sigh of pleasure. The man held it like a precious object, spike pointing at the sky. Flea stopped struggling, wishing heartily that he’d thrown the thing away as Jude had ordered.
“Turn it upside down.”
Blood from Flea’s nose threatened to run into his eyes.
“Please, master…” Flea wheedled, then started coughing as blood flowed into his throat.
“Shh.” The man turned to Shim. “The Lord will abhor the bloody and deceitful man. I’m quoting from your fifth Psalm, I think, and I feel sure—yes, I feel it in my waters—that he abhors bloody and deceitful children, too. Like this one. However, as we know, all the gods help those who help themselves and I like to think of myself as a results man. This, by th
e way, is my little helper.” The thin man waved the spike in the general direction of Flea’s face. “I lost it yesterday. I wonder, is it too much of a coincidence that this thing somehow has it?”
Flea opened his mouth and started coughing again. He could not quite untangle what the man was saying, but it did not sound good. The spike was of real concern.
The soldier turned Flea upright and squeezed him till his ribs crackled. Blackness rose in front of his eyes as if he were sinking in dirty water. He felt his spine crack, then kink.
“Don’t kill him! I mean … I feel responsible.” Shim sounded panicked. The grip loosened. Air rushed into Flea’s lungs with a whoop.
“You feel responsible? That’s because you are. It was following you and you didn’t have the wit to notice. As for me, the fact that it had my little helper suggests I’ve seen it before, but I’m not sure where. It’s just that I’m hearing a very special kind of music.”
“Music?” Shim looked around dimly.
“When I’m onto something I hear distant music. As I get nearer to the truth the music becomes louder and sweeter. Creature, how did my little helper come to be in your possession?”
The soldier gave Flea an encouraging squeeze.
“I found it,” Flea gasped.
“Where?”
“In the street. I don’t remember where. I was…” Flea fell silent as the Results Man tested the spike’s tip against his finger, then put it in Flea’s ear. The metal felt cold, oddly wet, sharp, and huge.
“A boy gave it to me! He was…” Flea screamed as a jag of cold pain lanced through him.
“Beautiful, but not quite there yet,” the man said. “You see, yesterday I was following one of Shim’s comrades—that horse-faced old bone-bag who’s taken a spear through the side of his face. So, I was following him, lost my helper in the covered market, and now this horrid little scrap has been following Shim with my little helper. Coincidence? I don’t think so. I think he was following Horse-Face and now he’s following Prat-Face—sorry, Shimon. While he was following Horse-Face, the man I believe is known as Judas the Ginger, he picked my pocket.”
“I can think of any number of other reasons…” Shim began.
“It’s true,” Flea gabbled. “I was with Jude yesterday and he gave me a couple of mites. When I saw Shim go off this morning, I thought maybe I could hit him up for a coin or two. Why not? All his crew are idiot do-gooders. They love beggars. I—”
“Shut up.” The Results Man narrowed his eyes. “You said you were with Judas. That must be a lie because if you were with Judas, I would have seen you.”
“I was following him, in secret. Like a game.”
“So was I. No, I think you were watching Judas’s back, and that makes me worried. You followed me, then picked my pocket in order to do … what? Time for more help. Other ear this time, I think.”
“Jude told me to! He thought he might be being followed!” Flea knew he could not stand the pain again.
“Trumpets! Cymbals! Harps! Marvelous!” the Results Man said. “Did you hear that, soldier? Did you hear that, Shimon? The music of truth! Now, what shall I do with this thing? Deafen it? Blind it?”
“No, no, no!” Shim said. “I must protest. I … whatever else, we are here to cure, not harm. I cannot allow it. I…”
Something dark flashed behind the Results Man’s eyes. “Idea! Might I suggest that I punish it, then you take it away and cure it? Yeshua the Healer is good at that, I hear. My little helper knows a place that will stop it from walking forever, but your master could fix that in an instant, couldn’t he? But I think there is still more to come.” He narrowed his eyes. “If this thing was watching Jude’s back, the question must be why? Why was his back so special it needed watching? Purely technically, I quite admire its skill. So, it’s with Jude but not with Jude. Any chance, Shim, that Jude is with your movement but not quite with your movement? Any chance that yesterday he was perhaps not acting in your best interests?”
“Jude might not be quite as … committed as the rest of us, but he would never betray us.”
The Results Man snapped his fingers. “I know. Let’s ask our new friend. Shimon, you ask the questions, and I’ll judge the quality of its answers.”
Shim cleared his throat, faced up to Flea, and tried to look imposing. “Well? Is this how a beggar boy repays kindness? What were you doing? Is Jude trying to go behind our backs?”
Flea tried to swing a foot in his direction. “It’s not Jude who’s the traitor! It’s you! You’re talking to Roman scum! Jude’s only trying to find out—”
The words turned to chalk in Flea’s mouth. His spit dried out. He tried to swallow.
“Well, Shim! Completely accidentally you seem to have bumbled onto a lead of some sort,” the Results Man said. “What is Jude trying to find out, pray?”
Flea found his voice. “Nothing.”
“I would remind you,” the Results Man said, “that we are surrounded by tombs. One more body here or there won’t make much difference, especially one as insignificant as yours.” A scratch of his stubbly chin.
“You wouldn’t,” Shim said.
“To get the truth out of him, I would.” The Results Man held Flea’s right eyelid up with his thumb. “You know how much it hurts to get grit in your eye…”
Flea felt the spike stroke his cheek, then stop in the dip where his eye socket met his nose.
“I might jab it in and scoop out your eye like an oyster. Do you know what oysters are? They’re flesh in a shell and Romans like to eat them raw.” He made a slurping sound.
A tear slid down Flea’s cheek.
“So, unspeakable agony followed by blindness followed by more agony followed by death and then nothing. No one will even wonder what happened to you. You don’t want to die, do you? Beggars have such developed survival instincts, and you’ve done so well so far. What a shame to throw it all away on, what? Misplaced loyalty to this Judas.”
The tip of the spike ached like ice.
“I’ll talk,” Flea said.
“Everything.” The Results Man smiled dreamily.
“Jude knows there’s a plan.”
“Yes.”
“He found out that the camel and the donkey on the bridge were rigged for Yeshua,” Flea said.
“The music has started again and it’s good. I almost feel like dancing.”
“Then he told me to follow Shim. I found out that Yeshua is planning a feast for tonight—a day early.”
“I’m losing that melody.”
“Jude told me to report back to him but I didn’t. I got caught instead.” Flea had to fight to hold back the tears.
The Results Man started to hum and beat time in the air. “Carry on.”
“That’s all I know. Everything. You have to believe me.”
“And I do!” The Results Man slammed imaginary cymbals together. Shim’s jaw dropped. “Jude would do that? Jude would spy on us?”
“You’re betraying him to the Imps!” Flea shouted. “You’re the traitor. You’re a dog. You’re a worm. You’re the worm in a dog’s—”
The Results Man clamped his hand across Flea’s mouth. “You could talk for the Imperium, you could. Shim’s not a worm. He’s just a man. A man with a plan. But what to do with you? You’re close to Jude, aren’t you? From now on, you’re working for me and you tell me everything he’s planning. Yes. That will work, although I suppose I might need a guarantee from you … By the way, where’s the rest of your gang?”
The switch in questioning put Flea off balance and he staggered into the trap. “With his lot, I suppose.” He nodded at Shim with as much contempt as he could express.
“Not any longer,” Shim said. “We’ll be preparing for our … for our meal tonight and they’re not invited.”
Flea shrugged. “Then at the shelter.”
“You don’t have a shelter.”
“Yes we do,” Flea protested. “Behind the bakery that’s close to the water
fountain halfway down the Temple’s west wall.” As soon as he had said the words he wished he hadn’t, but then again the spike still ached in his eye.
“Thank you. Shim, you scuttle off. You, helpful thing … creature … child … come with me.”
The soldier dropped Flea onto the ground. Not understanding, but with a sinking heart, Flea picked himself up and followed the Results Man.
25
The Results Man walked with long strides and a dipping, questing head, like a heron. Flea had to hurry to keep up. Every few strides the man shot him an unexpected question. How did he join the gang? How did they survive? Who were their rivals? Did he prefer languid summer days or bracing winter weather? Where did they sleep? Had he ever eaten pork? Camel? Would he eat a baby if he was starving? Did he play hide-and-seek? How far would he go to cling on to his miserable life? This far? That far? All the way? Not that far, surely. Just this far. Interesting. In a way.
Flea answered absentmindedly, trying to figure out how he could get away—or at least get a message to Jude. It would no longer be enough to tell him where the feast tonight was taking place; he had to warn him that he’d been found out. Perhaps Jude would be at the shelter when they got there. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that he had blabbed its location to the Results Man.
Once they were in the city, Flea said, “Er, where are we going? The gang’s shelter’s over in that direction.”
“All in good time. You’ve been kind enough to tell me where you live. Allow me to introduce you to my home.”
“Your home? You mean the Fortress?” He could not keep the quaver out of his voice.
“Come, come. It’s not that bad.” But it was.
The Fortress was the main Roman garrison in the city. All around it, heavy, greasy altar smoke hung in the air to remind you that it backed onto the Temple. Its huge wooden gate was flanked by two towers, with mean windows slashed into the rough gray stone. Behind the gate was a courtyard with a whipping post: stark, stained, and plain.
In front of the gate was a square. Even today, with the city as full as it ever could get, the square was deserted. No one liked to get close to the Fortress and the few people who could not avoid it scurried across the cobblestones, heads down. Only a handful of petitioners stood by the gate, begging the guards to find out if a relative had been arrested and taken in for questioning. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes people just disappeared. Sometimes they reappeared outside the gates—dazed, broken, discarded—and all but their mothers thought it might have been better if they had stayed disappeared.
