Jamie Buxton - Temple Boys

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, Crouch reached into the purse that he was still holding. With a great show he pulled out a gold coin and he held it up. More laughter and cheering all around, then the magician raised his hands for silence.

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.