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.
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