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 silence and shook it. Laughter erupted – the crowd knew all 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 forwards.
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 nicked 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 from his hands 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,
