they’re not . . . our people. They’re unclean.’
Jude laughed. ‘You’re not so clean yourself and anyway, do you really think you know who you are?’
‘Huh?’
‘Who are your parents, Flea?’
‘I don’t know. Dead, I think.’
‘Remember them?’ Jude asked coldly.
‘No, but . . .’
‘So for all you know, you’re a Wild Boy yourself.’
‘I’m not!’ Flea said, suddenly hot. ‘I can’t be.’
A lump blocked his throat. He had a memory that he guarded like a dog guards a bone: a courtyard, a storehouse, towering earthenware jars, a woman who looked at him from a doorway. He knew that once this had been his home and she was his mother, but he didn’t like to think about it too often because the feeling choked him.
Jude pulled Flea round and saw the look on his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That was wrong of me. I just meant that it doesn’t matter whether you’re high priest or Wild Boy or child of the streets. What’s in here: that’s what counts.’ He thumped his chest.
Flea said nothing.
‘What?’ Jude asked. ‘You want me to say sorry? Beg forgiveness? Crawl on my knees? Why are you staring at me like that?’
‘Just imagining what you’d look like hacked to bits.’
‘How many?’
‘Fifty.’
‘Ouch. I’m hurt.’
‘Good.’
‘Cut to the quick.’
‘That’s such a lame joke.’
‘I’m all in pieces.’
‘It was funny at first, now it’s not.’
They walked on.
‘Anyway,’ Flea said. ‘What did the Wild Girl mean about the end of the world?’
‘Hold your idiot tongue,’ Jude said urgently. ‘Talk like that could get you into trouble. Haven’t you felt the mood in the City?’
‘No different from usual.’
‘Good god. How are you still alive? Use your eyes,’ Jude said. ‘Look!’ He pointed to a corner where a group of men were huddled together, talking. One of them put his head up, whispered something urgently and the group dispersed. Then Flea saw three other men approaching, moving smoothly as if they knew no one could touch them: Temple spies. You could always tell them by the way they walked as if they owned the City but never stopped looking around.
‘And there,’ Jude said. More spies were closing in from the other direction. ‘And in the middle of all that, Yesh starts a riot in the Temple.’
‘You thought that was stupid?’
‘Stop asking questions, Flea.’
‘Or wrong? Why does it matter?’
‘It matters. That’s all you have to know.’
‘Oh, I get it,’ Flea said. ‘You want to protect him from danger. Nothing bad about that.’
Jude looked Flea straight in the eye. ‘Stop. Asking. Questions. And. Do. What. I. Say. This is where you start to earn your keep.’
Flea’s job was to stick behind Jude, look unimportant and check to see if anyone was following him. He was good at not being noticed and was pleased that Jude didn’t spot him when he looked back.
Jude turned off the street of the spice sellers and into a small yard where half a dozen donkeys and two camels with patchy coats were tethered to wall rings. He spoke to the groom, who shrugged and shook his head. Round the corner was another yard, and close to that a couple more. In each one, Jude asked questions, but always got the same shrug or shake of the head. Flea noted how Jude’s shoulders slumped each time he was sent on his way.
But what was he doing? There was no sign of haggling, so he wasn’t looking to hire a beast. Rather he seemed to ask a couple of questions, often repeating them, before moving on. So he was trying to find something out.
To the west of the sheep pens Jude followed a series of twisting alleyways so narrow the houses almost met above their heads and the air was as still and thick as a stagnant pond.
Even Flea did not know this part of the City and he became even more cautious. He watched as Jude squeezed down an alleyway beside a half-ruined warehouse. In front of the sagging doors, traders were selling stale vegetables, laid out on the ground. From inside came the sound of hammering. Smoke was belching from a chimney, which probably meant it was some kind of factory.
Cautiously he followed Jude down the alley and peered round the corner into a dank, sunless court that stank of animal dung. At the back of it was a shelter where a stringy brown donkey nosed at an empty manger and a camel stared haughtily at a wall.
Jude was talking to an old man.
Suddenly the scene on the bridge from the day before flashed into Flea’s mind. That old man was the donkey driver and here, surely, were the two useless beasts that had caused the traffic jam. What were they both doing here, sharing the same stall? Jude was arguing and the old man was shrugging and looking blank, but there was something sly about him. Now Jude was reaching into his purse and pressing coins into the old man’s hand, who shrugged, then said something. Jude seemed to ask for confirmation, nodded and walked away, a very different expression on his face. Thoughtful, worried, but more determined.
As Flea followed Jude out of the alley, he noticed a tall man stooping in front of one of the vegetable sellers. The man was pretending to smell the herbs, but his eyes were darting to left and right. When Jude turned in his direction, he looked away quickly.
No reason to do that, Flea thought and hung back.
Jude set off. The man standing at the vegetable stall put down a large green bunch of parsley, straightened up and ambled off in the same direction. In spite of his height, he managed to look apologetic and insignificant as he bobbed and weaved through the crowd.
Flea followed them south into the heart of the City, wondering how he could warn Jude without being spotted. When Jude paused at the entrance to the covered market – a warren of narrow streets, roofed over to keep the sun out in summer and the rain out in winter – Flea moved near to a large woman whose shopping was being carried by an equally large slave.
He pushed closer, then waited while the tall man fiddled with his sandal strap. As soon as Jude plunged into the gloom of the market, the tall man followed and so did Flea.
This was
