Jamie Buxton - Temple Boys

‘You talking to me?’

‘Yeah, you. Wait,’ Flea repeated. ‘We don’t even want to hang out at the steps. We’re going somewhere better.’

‘Piss off.’

‘But that’s just what we want to do,’ Flea said. ‘We don’t want trouble. We just want to get on.’

The Butcher Boy looked at Flea, then away, then at Flea again. Then he smiled.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Where?’

‘The Black Valley Bridge,’ Flea told him. ‘There’s a magician coming to town. He can make pigs fly and dead men dance. He’ll snap his fingers and the Temple’ll turn to mud, then he’ll snap them again and it’ll turn back to stone.’

‘Believe that, do you?’ The Butcher Boy looked over his shoulder and called out to a minion who was watching his back, ‘De lickle Temple Boys believe in magic!’ He turned to Big. ‘Suckers. Get on out of it. But if I see you anywhere near the Temple, you’re dead.’

Flushed and furious, Big pushed Flea out of the way and led the Temple Boys across the square.

As soon as they were out of sight of the other gang, Big grabbed Flea and pinned him against the wall.

‘What was that about?’ he demanded. His breath coated Flea’s face like a sour mask.

‘I got you out of trouble, didn’t I?’

‘You made me look like a prat. I’m not scared of the Butcher Boys.’

‘Maybe not you, but the rest of us wouldn’t stand a chance. And anyway, if the Butcher Boys are in the Square, the rest of the gangs will be there as well: the Water Gang, the Mad Dogs, the Holy Rollers . . . They’ll squeeze us out wherever we go. There won’t be a decent pitch left.’

Flea knew he was talking sense, but also knew that might not save him. He should have kept his mouth shut.

Silence, then: ‘I had it sorted,’ Big said. ‘Don’t you forget it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Flea said. ‘Really sorry.’

He felt Big’s grip on his tunic loosen.

‘And what was that crap you were on about? About a magician?’ Big looked suspicious.

Flea opened his eyes and tried to look honest and sincere. ‘It’s true. I swear it. The best magician in the world is coming to town by the Black Valley Bridge.’

‘How come we haven’t heard?’

‘He’s coming from up north, from Gilgad or somewhere. A merchant told the Grinderman and the Grinderman told me. I just thought, what with the crowds and them all being tourists, there’ll be rich pickings.’

Big dropped Flea. ‘Rich pickings, you reckon? Robbing tourists?’

Flea nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. They’ll all be gawping at the magician.’

Big almost cracked a smile. ‘And that’s why you’re an insect and will always be an insect. We’re not going to waste our time stealing pennies off out-of-towners. This magician’s from Gilgad, right, the other side of the back end of beyond. He’ll be clueless. What does he do after he performs all his tricks? Well?’

Crouch was the quickest to catch on.

‘He’ll take a collection.’

‘Exactly. He’ll empty everyone’s pockets, and then what do we do? I’ll tell you. We’ll empty his. We’re the Temple Boys. We know how to handle a conjuror. We’ll give him a welcome to the City he’ll never forget.’

Big went through the plan. Red was lookout again. Crouch and Halo were to get the magician’s attention by asking a lot of stupid questions; he and Little Big would work out who was carrying the purse. Clump, Snot, Hole-in-the-Head, Gaga and Crutches would surround them, then Grab would cut the purse free and Smash would leg it. They’d all rendezvous back at the shelter at noon.

‘What about me?’ Flea asked.

‘What about you?’ Big answered. ‘You can just . . . hop off.’

He looked around the rest of the gang until he got a couple of sniggers. Then they set off for the Black Valley Bridge.

The Black Valley ran below the eastern City walls. To reach the bridge from Temple Square the gang hurried alongside the western temple walls, turned right into the blaring chaos of the sheep market with its pens and purification baths and headed for the eastern gate.

The crowd was surging and chaotic. Clearly they weren’t the first people to hear about the coming of the magician.

In the choke point of the narrow city gate, Flea found himself wedged between a porter carrying a sack of grain and a fat man’s belly. ‘Is he here? Do you really think he’s the Chosen One?’ a voice called out.

‘That’s what I heard,’ the porter close to Flea answered. ‘Miracle worker. There was this leper up at Bethany: one touch and he was better. He made a man with a withered leg go dancing up and down the street – completely cured – and he does eyesight too!’

‘Miracle worker?’ the fat man jeered. ‘He’s got to be a lot more than that if he’s the Chosen One. King David – he was the Chosen One, and he was a proper warrior and a king as well. You think this conjuror can match up to King David? Next you’ll be saying he walks on water!’

That drew a big laugh from the crowd; then all other words were lost in the rising din.

Flea freed himself from the crush and pushed on. Ahead, he saw Red climbing a tree near the bridge. Flea shinned up after him until he was far above head height and could see all the way across the Black River Valley.

An old stone bridge crossed the steep valley in a single span. Both the bridge and the road on either side were blocked solid. Gawkers ambling out of the City to see the action met out-of-towners streaming into the City for the Feast. All the passing places on the bridge were occupied by black-robed Wild People selling souvenirs to the tourists. Imperial soldiers had set up a roadblock to try and take matters in hand, but were just making things worse. To complete the chaos, a donkey pulling a cart into the City had met a camel carrying a mountainous bundle of hay out of it. Neither was prepared to pass the other – or reverse.

From high in his tree, Flea surveyed the scene cheerfully. His plan had worked. By a mixture of luck and guile he had persuaded the Temple Boys to do what he wanted. If the day went well, surely he’d be properly accepted by them. He felt happy.

‘Bloody tourists,’ he said to Red. ‘Don’t see how anyone’s going to get through this.’

Red ignored him.

‘You know Big’s plan to rob the magician? I thought –’

Red said, ‘Leave it.’ He snapped off a long, thin twig and started poking a man’s turban with it. The man turned on his neighbour; angry words were exchanged. Red gave a stiff lopsided grin, wiped a tear away from the corner of his ruined eye and handed the stick to Flea to have a go.

Flea tried to get the conversation going again. ‘So, how long do you give this magician before the Temple Police throw him out of town? A day?’ He dropped the twig on the angry man’s head.

Red snorted. ‘Half a day if he’s lucky, but it won’t be down to the Temple Police. This is the Feast. The City’s going mad. If he’s a troublemaker the Imps won’t even let him cross the bridge. You watch.’

They stopped for a moment to watch the Imps, Roman Imperial soldiers, failing to organise the chaos on the bridge.

‘There seems to be a lot of people to meet him.’

‘Maybe he’s that good,’ Red answered.

Flea shook his head. ‘If he’s that good, why haven’t we heard of him before? I heard someone asking if he was the Chosen One. What was all that about?’

‘Shut up, insect,’ snapped Red. ‘Can’t you stop talking? Can’t you stop . . . thinking?’

Flea did shut up, but quickly began to feel bored. The sun was weak, but the sky was bright white and made his eyes water. He narrowed them to slits and scanned the landscape on the other side of the bridge, the rocky slopes of the Black River Valley and then the pale scar of the road winding down from a notch in the soft shoulders of Olive Tree Hill.