style="font-size:15px;"> Flea nodded in appreciation. A decent trick, good enough to con a easy-going crowd in a holiday mood. But not good enough to con him.
The priest hadn’t finished, though.
‘Not so clever,’ he sneered. ‘Not so clever at all. That dove was dedicated to God and you let it free. And as if defiling the Temple with your filth wasn’t enough, that coin tells us all we need to know about people like you. A Roman coin. The currency of our conquerors. You come to the Temple, the beating heart of our religion, and the only coin you can produce has the hated Imperial stamp on it! What were people shouting at you? That you were the Master? Well, whose man are you, Yeshua? The people’s or the emperor’s?’
Rusty-haired Jude was watching the magician closely. Flea had made his way right next to him. He pressed up close and located exactly where the money bag was tied to Jude’s waistband. His light fingers began to work at the knot that held it.
The magician answered the priest for the first time. ‘You know the answer to that, my friend,’ he said in a rich, level voice.
‘But your coin’s got the emperor’s head on it!’ The priest sounded triumphant.
The magician took the coin back from Crouch and looked at it closely. ‘So it has,’ he said. ‘There’s the big man himself. Now, what do you think I should do with it?’
‘Shove it where the sun don’t shine!’ a heckler called out, and the magician laughed, a proper, warm laugh.
‘I’d love to, but let’s see what the priest has to say, because we all know how much the Temple loves its money!’
A huge roar of appreciation – excellent for Flea. The knot was loosening. The money bag was almost free.
The magician waited for quiet, then took a step towards the priest, and another, until he was right in front of him and had to look up, like a child.
‘You asked what had changed about me since I was last here, but I don’t think I really have changed that much. I think it’s this place that’s changed. You think that I’m somehow a lesser man for carrying an Imperial coin, but you deal with Roman money every day. Even worse, you try and make me insult the emperor while you live under his shadow all the time.’
He pointed to the parapet of the Roman Fortress that loomed over the northern walls of the Temple. It was bristling with Imperial soldiers. He pointed to the roof of the portico from which more soldiers looked down, as they did every Feast day, ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble.
‘Even the high priest has to beg the Roman commander for his ceremonial robes, and at the end of every festival he has to give them back so the commander can lock them in his storeroom!’
The crowd began to mutter. No one liked to be reminded of the power the Romans held over them.
‘And you have the nerve to criticise me for using an Imperial coin?’ he continued. ‘The emperor can have his coin back, but what about the people? What about the coins in the Temple treasury? Coins poor farmers have sweated blood to earn and have starved themselves to bring here as taxes. Isn’t it enough that we pay taxes to feed the Imperial army? Do we have to pay for the Temple too? The Temple used to protect the people, but now it only protects itself. The Temple grows richer while the country grows poorer. The Temple clings on to Rome like a weak child hangs around a bully. This isn’t a temple. This is a market stall! Friends, if you want freedom, free yourselves from the Temple!’
With a practised countryman’s flick the magician threw the coin high in the air in the direction of the Fortress and started to walk to the southern colonnade, taking the crowd with him.
As he did so, Flea gave the string holding the money bag one last tug. But before he could grab it, Jude’s hand clamped down hard on his.
There was nothing he could do. Flea’s hand was round the purse; Jude’s hand was round his. He was stuck.
Caught.
Doomed.
‘Not bad, little thief, not bad. But not good enough,’ Jude whispered, looking down.
Flea looked at the crowd and saw how he was being left behind. He struggled, went limp, struggled again.
‘And stop worming around or I’ll turn you in. What do you think the punishment will be? Will they cut off an ear, or will they just stone you? Ever been to a stoning? They bury you up to your neck in the ground and –’
‘All right, all right!’ Flea said between gritted teeth.
‘Good. Now, we’re going to talk.’
‘Why? What do you want from me?’
A hard squeeze made him squeal.
‘Not your place to ask,’ Jude said, and Flea allowed himself to be dragged across to the low railing that separated the outer court from the inner. Only when they were there did Jude loosen his grip a little.
‘I’m curious,’ he said. ‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’
‘What do you care?’ Flea said.
He looked at the man with rust-coloured hair properly. He had a thin, horsey face with long teeth. There was a star-shaped scar in the middle of one cheek and he appeared to have lost most of his teeth on that side of his face.
‘About you? Nothing. But to be honest, I’d stick my head in boiling oil before I handed anyone over to the Temple Police, even my worst enemy.’
‘If you don’t let me go, I’ll be your worst enemy!’ Flea tried to kick him, but could not reach.
The grip tightened again.
‘All right, all right. I’m one of the Temple Boys,’ Flea said. ‘We’re a gang. The boys on the bridge you helped – they were Big and Snot. The one who’s all hunched over, that’s Crouch. The pretty one is Halo. I’m –’
‘You’re Flea.’
‘How did you know my name?’
‘Magic – what else? Actually, on the way here your friend Big was telling me about his gang: all your names and where you live. Apparently, all he has to do is snap his fingers and you’ll do anything he asks.’ Long-toothed smile. ‘Now, can I let you go so we can talk? All right? Good.’
Flea flexed his hand while Jude put the money bag safely inside his satchel.
Jude rubbed his face and it sounded like a rock scraping on gravel. ‘Bottom of the heap, are you?’
‘Yes,’ Flea said reluctantly.
‘Finding it hard?’
‘Suppose.’
‘I know all about that,’ Jude said. ‘Although my case is slightly different.’
Flea
