Temple Boys (11 page)

Flea did not dare move, even though Jude was gripping his shoulder so hard it hurt. He watched the clench of Jude's jaw muscle and noticed a tic shiver the skin on his scarred cheek.

Jude took a breath and said, “Yes, Master. I see.”

Yesh turned away. “Mat, pay for that tree. The rest of you, pray for it.” A twisted smile. “Now come on. There's still a lot to do.”

“Is that what you call keeping your head down?” Flea asked Jude. “It's just that…”

“Enough! Listen, at the Temple there may be trouble, and remember what Shim said last night? They'll be trying to use you as a sort of shield. It's one thing to chuck us out of Temple Square; it's quite another to hurt little children, especially if Yesh has the crowd on his side. Believe me, that's one thing he's good at.”

 

22

The wide steps
that led up to the Temple's southern doors were normally crowded. Today they were empty, the crowd kept back by a cordon of Temple guards. But the crush of people made room for Yesh as he led his followers and the Temple Boys toward it.

“Lord, they're obviously expecting us,” Mat said. “We won't be able to get into the Temple today. Should we discuss what to do next?”

Yesh did not pause. “Should the crowd see us run away at the first sign of trouble? I think we can do better than that.” He put his head down and walked through the crush, curious faces all around. The unspoken question hung in the air:
What's he going to do now?

Then, as they approached the cordon guarding the steps, something very unexpected happened. The Imps moved back to let them through. Nodding thanks to the left and right, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Yeshua began to lead them up.

“Lord,” Mat said, “they're not letting anyone in after us. I told you—”

“Have faith, brother,” Yesh said. He climbed very slowly up the steps. Flea turned so his back was to the Temple gates. Below him, behind the cordon of soldiers, were upturned faces and hope rising like a vapor.

“Lord, the people—your people—want to hear you speak,” Mat said. “You can't be seen to enter the Temple while they've been shut out.”

Yesh stopped midstep, turned, and looked down. His face was like a stone in a stream, all smooth ridges and dips. The murmur from the crowd dropped, rose, then dropped again. Tension grew in the silence like water swelling a skin.

With the Temple walls rearing up behind and the great expanse of marble steps so bare, Flea felt trapped and exposed. He found himself counting and wishing.
One, two, three … He's got to say something. Four, five, six … Please say something. Seven, eight, nine … Don't do anything stupid. Ten, eleven, twelve … The Imps will do something … Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen … The Imps are turning now … Nineteen, twen—

“How wonderful to see you all! Thank you so much! I never expected a crowd like this!”

Yesh's words were a lovely surprise, like a splash of warm water when you were braced for cold.

“And thank you to the soldiers for doing such a splendid job today. I want you all to thank them too!”

Like a magician, he raised his arms and turned to the left and to the right. A huge roar. Everyone liked to laugh at the Romans, but you never got the chance. And here was Yesh actually thanking them …

“And a hand for the Temple,” Yesh continued. “I've said harsh things about it in the past: it was too big, too expensive, too just about everything. I've said that if I had my way, I'd pull it down brick by brick and not leave a single stone standing. But do you know, I think I've changed my mind. If it wasn't for these fine, impressive steps, how could I see you all? And how could you all see a short-arse like me?”

More laughter and a smatter of applause.
He's got the crowd now,
Flea thought, and when someone called out, “Give us some magic, mate!” and Yesh called back, “Sorry, I'm into talking today,” there was a murmur but it wasn't an angry noise. People were curious. People wanted to know what was going to happen next.

“But thank you for raising the subject, friend, because that's partly what I wanted to say. The time for tricks is over. The time for magic is over. Some of you have said I perform miracles and I'm afraid the time for that is over too. Well, maybe there's time for one more … we'll have to see. The thing is, I've got so much to say and I think time may be running out so I'm going to talk, and if you stay, my friends, I'll take it as a sign that you want to hear more.”

And then Yesh was off. The followers and the Temple Boys began to sit down around him. Yohan, the youngest member of the movement, sat on one side of him and Yak, Yesh's brother, on the other. Flea leaned back, his elbow on the step behind, and let the words wash over him.

“You don't have to put up with the way things are. No one should and no one needs to. There's a better way—my way—and if you only give me a tiny bit of faith, a scrap of belief, I can change you so that you can change anything you want. Want to move a mountain…?”

“All right then,” a voice called out. “How do we do that?”

“Well, maybe not a real mountain—but last night, this gang of young hooligans were the guests of the richest man in the city. If that's possible, anything is!”

The same heckler: “Can you get me an invitation?”

“Don't push your luck, friend.” Yesh smiled, then his voice changed. “It would be fantastic if we could just hold this idea in our heads forever and hope it came about. It would be wonderful, but it would be a dream. Time is made of moments and some moments are special. A special moment can move past you like a leaf in the wind and, if you don't grasp it, it's gone forever, and the opportunity's lost. And a moment like this is coming, my friends. I know it and feel it. You know it and feel it. And if you want this to happen, if you want better times, if you want change, you have to be prepared. This is all I ask of you. Let me grasp the moment, let me take the hour, but you must be prepared. You know the prophecies. You know the stories. You know the signs!”

The crowd was restless now, pressing up against the guards, and as they shuffled backward Flea noticed Shim slipping away to one side. Jude had moved down to try to calm people and reason with the guards, who were scared now and had drawn their weapons. He'd be too busy to talk. Flea knew he had to act, and so, making himself small, he set off after Shim.

 

23

Shim walked quickly,
but he was a tall man and so was easy to keep in view.

The streets grew less crowded, as if everyone had drained into the Lower City. In a broad street that ran straight as an arrow to the city walls, Flea watched as Shim stopped at a simple square building next to an inn. He climbed up rickety stairs to the upper story and went in through a wooden door covered in flaking blue paint.

Flea ran to the building and hid under the wooden steps. The door was open a crack. He could hear voices.

“So that's fixed now?” Shim sounded tense and businesslike.

The voice that answered was wheedling but sharp. “Oh yes, sir. A meal for thirteen, meat to be provided, this evening. Could the master tell me why he is arranging his holy feast a day early?”

“You can mind your own business,” Shim snapped. “You're being paid, aren't you?”

“Handsomely, yes, by the agent of Yusuf of Ramathain. You are fortunate indeed to have such powerful friends. Of course I had to charge for the whole week because—”

“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.