Temple Boys (19 page)

“But, for better or worse, this man has a considerable following,” the priest said. “Put him in front of the governor and the mob will go mad. It's a disaster waiting to happen.”

“At last we get to the truth,” the Results Man said. “Now you admit he has a following, but have grown so fat and lazy up on your rock that you think this little problem will go away if you do nothing.”

“We had a plan in place…” the young priest repeated. “We were handling it.”

“You were not.” Again, Flea was pushed forward and held in full view of the priests. “Your plan, as you call it, was undone by this … beggar thing and has been a disaster from day one. I repeat: Yeshua is calling for revolution. Yet again the Imperium must stand as the bulwark between order and chaos. Idiots.”

The Results Man spat out the final word and stalked away.

 

38

The governor's palace
was only a hundred paces from the high priest's.

They were expected. Flaring torches painted fire and darkness on marble walls. A mob had gathered. It seethed angrily behind a hedge of soldiers. In front of it a clear space had been left, then there were wide, even steps and the balcony of the palace.

Flea was released. But there was nowhere for him to run, and he pushed through into the soldiers so he could see Yesh waiting at the foot of the steps. Yeshua's eyes were closed and he rocked slowly from foot to foot. Flea felt exposed. He didn't want Yesh to see him. He couldn't face his steady smile again. He pushed back through the soldiers and suddenly was face-to-face with the skinny girl.

“How did you get in here?” he hissed. She didn't answer immediately but beckoned to him, and they pushed through the crowd to a mounting block by the wall. They stood on it, out of the crush and out of the way.

“I squeezed behind the guards when the crowds outside started pushing. No one ever sees me,” the girl whispered.

Flea sized her up. She was stick thin and her face had shadows where there shouldn't be, but she didn't look starved. What's more, she must have crossed the city today, and starving people couldn't do that. Her eyes were big and under them her face narrowed to a small chin. Her hair was close-cropped where his was long and matted. That was partly why she looked so vulnerable.

“Have a good look, why don't you?” she said when she noticed him staring.

“Why are you following me?” Flea asked.

“Following you? I'm following the action. I warned you to stay away.”

“You thought this would happen?”

She looked around. “This? No one thought this would happen. I was just trying to save you from a beating from the Temple Police.”

“But why?”

“I hate cruelty to dumb animals.”

Flea couldn't even think of a retort. “Dumb animal is just about right,” he said. “Everything's my fault. I messed everything up.”

“I tried to warn you.” The girl's mouth closed primly.

“You never told me the world was about to end!” Flea snapped back. “You didn't tell me the Romans were involved.”

The girl stared him down. “You just ran away. From me. Whenever I tried to help you.”

Flea flushed hot. He looked into the black sky. It had started to snow again; flakes swirled in the torchlight then melted with a hiss. He shivered. Instead of the hard brilliance of stars, there was shifting chaos. A singed moth patted his feet and spiraled off.

The girl exhaled. “Look, don't go all soft,” she said. “Truth is, no one knew. I hang out on the other side of the Temple, near the kitchens? Sometimes they let me sweep the floors and move the rubbish in the dining hall. You hear all sorts of stuff, if you listen. Anyway, the other day, the Temple Police were going on about this magician who was coming to town and how they wanted to stop something from happening. I never heard what. But that's why I warned you.”

“But the Police were trying to do the right thing and I stopped them,” Flea said. “The priests thought that if people ignored Yesh, then no one would listen to him. When the Imps arrested him, that's when it would all kick off. But get this: Yesh wanted to be arrested.”

“So he wanted it. So then it wasn't your fault,” the girl said.

“What's it to you?” Flea asked. “I mean…”

But he couldn't finish because at that moment the governor of the city, the Roman in charge of them all, appeared on the balcony of his palace. He was wearing a purple cloak. His thinning hair was pushed forward on his forehead and you could see the gray stubble on his fat cheeks.

With barely a look at the crowd, the governor nodded and the trial began. A succession of men Flea had never seen told the governor that Yeshua wanted a revolution, to change the world, change everything. He would pull down the Temple and throw out the Romans and rule as king.

After the evidence had been heard, the governor turned to Yeshua. “Well?” he asked. “What have you got to say in your defense?”

As before, Yeshua said nothing.

More witnesses stepped up, their words tumbling from their mouths like the harsh clink of coins dropping. If Yeshua was innocent, why didn't he defend himself? This was more than surliness, more than arrogance; this was rebellion. By refusing to answer, Yeshua was defying the Imperium itself.

The governor himself stayed still, his eyes hooded, but darting to left and right. Outside the palace, shouting rose and fell like a weak wind. Inside, the crowd followed instructions on when to cheer or scream abuse.

Then at last even the governor had had enough.

He stood to cheers from the crowd. When he spoke, he had to shout, and Flea only heard fragments of what he said.

“Should … him go?… Punish him? Temple wants … blasphemy … Choose … Yeshua or Barabbas?”

The governor clapped his hands and another man was brought out. He was stooped and filthy with matted hair, and a shocked gasp went up from the crowd. Abbas Barabbas, the King of Thieves! He stole from the rich! He gave to the poor! He fed the starving! He disappeared a year ago and everyone said the Romans had murdered him. Now here he is, like he has risen from the dead!

Abbas clasped his hands above his head and shook them. He looked drugged. More cheers. The governor called Yesh to stand next to him. The crowd started to hiss. The governor shoved Abbas forward. Cheers.

Flea could not bear to look. The Romans had planned this. Yesh had planned this. The crowd knew what to do. Everything was a link in a chain and the chain was dragging Yesh to his death. How could anyone fight this?

The governor shrugged and the crowd began to surge. The skinny girl caught hold of Flea.

“Now's your chance to get away!” she said. “No one can stop you.”

“But what about Yesh?”

The girl grabbed him by the arm. “He's finished. Come away with me now. Please. Save yourself. You can do it.”

Flea didn't budge. “It's no use. You don't understand. I told the Romans where Yesh was tonight. Then I helped them arrest him. If he dies, it's my fault.”

“Then he got what he wanted! Come on.”

Now from their vantage point Flea could see the Results Man pushing through the crowd toward him.

He pulled the girl close so she could hear what he said without the Results Man seeing. “I can't. I really can't. I'm meant to be meeting one of Yesh's followers by that old tree by the dump tonight. Can you go there instead of me? Can you tell him I'm really sorry that … Can you just tell him I'm sorry? Can you do that? Please?”

“But why don't you?”

“Like I said, I just can't,” he said, seeing the hurt and disappointment in her eyes as she realized that he was just pushing her away again.

 

39

Yesh was dragged
to his feet and kicked into the street. Scuffles broke out—the crowd outside was less compliant than the hand-picked stooges inside and some were outraged that Abbas had been released. At an order, the Romans started smashing their spear shafts into the ground to clear the street before them. Any feet caught under them would be broken. Any person who fell would get crushed.

The Results Man looked as unconcerned as if he were going for a stroll through the market. He peered from side to side, his head pecking the air, his mouth curled up in his idiot smile. Every now and again he looked down at Flea and opened his eyes wide, as if he were saying,
Look at this, and look at this. Isn't it exciting? Isn't it interesting?

Flea couldn't take it any longer. “Why?” he said. “Why do you want Yeshua to die? Why go to all this trouble?”

“You mean, if we wanted him dead why didn't we just strangle him quietly up there in the Pleasure Gardens? Him and all his followers?”

“I suppose.”

The Results Man smiled a humorless smile. “Big question. Let's just say that Rome wants to make sure justice is seen to be done.”

“But if it's going to make trouble … I mean, it's not too late. You could just sort of lose him. I could find somewhere to hide him. People would forget soon enough. And anyway, you're just doing what he wants; surely you don't want that.”

“Oh, Flea. How much you have to learn,” sighed the Results Man. “Do you think I have a heart of stone? Justice should be hard but never cruel. Yeshua wants to die. He wants a great send-off. Who am I to deny him that?”

“Let me talk to him,” Flea said. “Please. He thought I was special. He said so. If I could get him to change his mind, then you wouldn't be doing what he wants and—”

“I could hug you,” the Results Man said, stopping suddenly in his tracks. “You people could start an argument with a wall. I tell you what, Flea—if you can persuade Yeshua to beg me for his life, then yes, I will let him go free.”

“What?” Flea could hardly believe his ears.

“If Yeshua asks nicely, I will spare him his life. Go on. Ask.”

The Results Man shooed Flea along the procession and ordered the soldiers around Yeshua to let him talk to Flea, who was clearly a superior young man and one they could all learn from. The Imps had put a halter round Yesh's neck and were leading him like a donkey. His feet were dragging and his head was bowed.

But Flea could whisper in his ear. He was almost choked with hope.

“Yeshua, listen. I've done it. I've got the Results Man to agree. If you ask him for your life, he'll go along with it. He promised. He'll let you go free. I should never have told them who you were in the Gardens. I know it's all my fault. Please,” he wheedled cleverly. “Don't make me feel so bad. I'm so sorry.”

For an instant there was life in Yesh's eyes: a gleam of warmth, a glimmer of knowing. He licked his lips, swallowed. “You helped me, Flea. You did what you thought was right.”

“But it was wrong. I see that now. Please. It's your last chance.”

Another gleam, and this time the bruised lips pulled back in a sort of smile.

“Did you know that the prophet Shama-el wrote about you? ‘For the king has come to seek a flea, as one who hunts a partridge in the mountains.' I looked for you, Flea. I found you. You have played your part in the prophecy. Now you must accept it.”

Flea realized he was getting nowhere. “I don't want to be part of a prophecy. Please.
Please
.”

But Yesh's face had shut down and Flea knew he would get no more out of him.

Prophecy,
Flea thought.
What do I know about the prophecy?
But his exhausted brain would not give him the answer, and the Results Man did not help.

He beckoned Flea to him and asked what Yesh had said. When Flea told him he was part of a prophecy, the Results Man barked out a laugh.

“Do you really think Yeshua can challenge us? Do you really think a threat could come from the gods of this pitiful dung heap in a forgotten corner of our Empire? Flea, little Flea, we make our own gods. We know Yeshua thinks that if we will kill him, his magic will be all the stronger. We know that and we laugh, because that is the very thing that interests us. His power. We have heard he can do a certain thing that interests the Imperium very much, and we intend to find out how this thing works.”

“What?” Flea said. “A trick?”

“We think it is more than a trick. We think this is the big thing that explains how a mouthy conjuror with twelve tramps for followers thinks he can change the world.”

“What is it?”

“I'll give you a clue. It's not about him being the Chosen One. It's all about how he becomes Chosen One.”

Flea looked away and tried to think.

A prophecy. A change. A secret. What's the secret? Flea beat his brains trying to work it out as the procession moved from the governor's palace to the Fortress.

 

40

In the courtyard
of the Fortress the soldiers wrapped the branches of a thorn bush, spikes as long as a dog's tooth, around Yesh's head and asked him who was the governor now.

Flea was still thinking about secrets and prophecies. He was thinking as they tied Yesh by the wrists to the post in the middle of the yard and the Results Man knelt by his head and whispered in his ear.

He was thinking as the whip sang flesh and blood from Yesh's back so that it pattered onto the flagstones like rain.

He was thinking while the Results Man lost patience, took a handful of Yesh's hair, yanked his head back, and hissed in his ear, “Well? Now will you tell me? Now you must tell me!”

He was thinking as the guards exchanged looks, shrugged, and winced.

And Flea also waited. He waited for Yeshua to talk. And when he didn't, Flea waited for the heavens to open, for the people to rise, and for the Temple to fall. But nothing happened like that. The music of hissing whip and splitting flesh hurt his head and clogged his ears, and Yesh's silence grew huge and squeezed out all other thoughts, all ideas, and just left the knowledge of his pain.