Temple Boys (25 page)

“I think the point is that there's going to be a new world where everything's turned upside down. The rich will be poor, the poor will be rich, beggars will be kings, lots of food instead of too little. All good stuff.” So why didn't he feel happier, he wondered.

“And it's just going to … happen? And we've got no say in it? But how?”

“It's the prophecy. It's all come true so far, no matter what I've done,” Flea said. “They're looking after someone in there. They called him Laz. He was dead for three days but Yesh brought him back to life.”

“No.” Tesha's eyes were wide. “Three days?”

“He looked it as well. I just … I don't have a good feeling about this change. That's why I think I've got to do something … else.”

“Which is?”

Flea scuffed the ground with his toe. Broken things shifted under the weeds.

“Get my gang out of prison. I thought I could trade my secret—you know, trade my secret for my gang.”

“To the Romans?”

“I don't reckon it will work. I don't think the prophecy works that way. Look—it's like your bet with yourself, when you didn't give up on me. I just don't want to give up on my gang.”

Tesha shook her head. “But it's not your gang, is it? They treated you like dirt. You might as well say this is your city. It's not. The gang, the city, they just exist. They're not here for you or me, we're here for them, if we let them use us. They're all using you: your gang, that Roman, and now Yesh's followers. You're going to sacrifice yourself like Yesh did, but for what? So you can die like he did?”

“I'm not going to die,” Flea said. “No one is.”

“And how was that for Yesh?”

“But he's coming back to life!”

“And you want that? It's disgusting. We've both seen dead people. We know what that's like. I rescued you and you just want to throw it away.” Tesha was almost in tears.

Flea put his head down. If he looked at her he would change his mind. “I've got to go,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't go. If you do, you'll never see me again! Never ever!”

But he went.

“Never ever. Ever!” Her voice faded.

 

52

Flea trotted across
the empty square accompanied only by the soft shuffle of his steps until he stood outside the Fortress. He thought about what he was planning to do and failed to find the slightest hint of good sense in it. He just knew he had to do it.

The city had felt dark and charged, like the air before a thunderstorm. Flea had flitted from street to street, shutters opening as he came, then slamming shut after him. In side alleys, faces turned to see who passed, then turned away. Only the fire altar in the Temple smoked today; charcoal and ash from thousands of home fires gritted the paving.

So why was the Fortress locked? Surely they could feel the mood? Flea banged on the postern gate with his fists, and when nothing happened he found a rock and started whacking it with that.

When the gate eventually opened and a bad-tempered, fully armed Imp stormed out, Flea flung himself face downward on the ground and said, “Don't hurt me. I've come to see someone.”

A moment's silence. He felt the sharp tip of a sword prod him under the arm.

“Ow,” he said. “I surrender. I won't fight.”

That prompted a laugh and he looked up. The soldier was dark and wiry and looked like he came from Saba or somewhere to the south.

“I've come to report to the Results Man. I want to give myself up.”

“You do what?” The accent was short and choppy. He was joined by two others, who looked warily into the wide square in front of the Fortress before staring down at Flea.

“I don't know his real name,” Flea said. “He's tall. He hasn't got much hair. He smiles like a tortoise and walks like a heron.” He got to his feet and did a passable imitation of the Results Man in motion. “I've found out something important. He needs to know.”

The men talked in their own language, then the one who had opened the door shook his head. “Get lost. This is bad day for jokes. We'll let you go, but don't come back.”

“But it's important! You know who I mean?”

“Of course.”

“Then tell him I know about the uprising.”

That worked. They talked among themselves, stood back to let Flea in, then led him down the stairs to the dungeons.

One hour later and Flea was feeling smug. It was a real dungeon, no doubt about it, with black slime on the walls, filthy straw on the floor, a bucket that was the home of all stenches, and a stone bench too narrow to lie on. It proved that they were taking him seriously.

Two hours later he still felt pretty clever.

Three hours later, when no one was taking any notice of his shouts, he felt hoarse and thirsty.

Four hours later, when the man in the cell next door threatened to tear his head off, he was beginning to feel a bit stupid.

Five hours later he wished he were with the Wild People, Tesha, even Tauma. Anywhere but here.

Six hours later the cell door crashed open.

“Well, you asked for me and now you have me. I'm all ears,” the Results Man said. His voice sounded flat. He looked tired and there was gray stubble on his chin. “Talk.”

Flea blinked. Behind the Results Man was his usual guard, this time holding a flaming brand that seared Flea's eyeballs. “I thought you'd see me sooner.”

“Why?”

“You said you'd keep my friends to make sure I did what you wanted. Well, I did what you wanted: I stayed with Yesh while you beat him and I stayed with him while he died. Nothing happened. But now I know why.”

“And are you going to tell me?”

“If my gang's all right.”

“You're not trying to bargain, are you? You've seen what I will do to find the truth. I'll peel you like an orange, if I have to. So. Tell me what you know.”

“And then you'll let us go?”

“And then I'll let you go. The truth will set you free.” The Results Man seemed to find that amusing.

So Flea told him about Laz, and the three-day wait, and what would happen afterward.

“And the uprising? What did you find out about the uprising? Where will it start? Who will be leading it? Yusuf the Merchant? Is the Temple with them or against them?”

“I don't know any of that,” Flea said. Now that he'd told the Results Man everything, it didn't seem to add up to much. He was beginning to feel frightened. “I just know what you told me: to find out what Yesh said. Well, he didn't say anything, but I found out more.”

The Results Man smiled, chucked Flea under the chin, pushed him back into the cell, and slammed it shut.

Flea hurled himself against the door. “That's not fair!” he shouted.
“You promised!”

The Results Man spoke softly through the rusty iron grille set into the door. “Poor Flea. You know just enough to make you slightly dangerous but you haven't got the faintest idea why. I never break a promise. Tomorrow I shall set you free. And if your Yesh is to be believed, we shall all be free. All of us. Forever.”

Flea watched the torchlight recede. The man in the next-door cell chuckled quietly. Then silence and darkness enfolded them.

 

THREE DAYS AFTER

 

53

Flea was not sure
if he had slept or not. He could just balance on the bench if he lay on his side, but the stone was cold and if he tried to curl up he would fall on the rotten rushes strewn around the floor. He lay, he shivered, he got up, he lay back down again. The room was pitch-black. He knew that when morning came he would see gray light through the bars, but he wasn't sure if he wanted the day to come. In spite of himself, he eventually fell into a deep sleep.

In fact, the Results Man returned before dawn. Suddenly the cell door was open and there he was, holding a small oil lamp that he sheltered with a cupped hand. Flea woke with a gasp, confused. He'd been having a nightmare. In it he had been going calmly about his business in the city, but all the time he was full of the knowledge that he had crucified Yesh. The memory itself was like a monster that dogged his footsteps. He walked, it walked. If he stopped, it stopped. If he ran, it ran. The monster had no shape. It was just there: a big lump of pain that belonged to him and was the ruin of his life.

So he was relieved to be woken, but then he remembered. This was the third day. The day of reckoning.

“Follow.”

For the first time the Results Man had no guard with him. Flea trotted after him, down one set of winding stairs then a second. Under the Fortress there was another world. He smelled cooking, heard the ringing clang of a smithy. At the end of a corridor he saw a great vaulted hall where soldiers slept on mattresses. Then more passages. More steps down. Always down. Flea began to wake up properly. He thought there might be something furtive in the way the Results Man was moving. He didn't know if this was bad or good.

At last they came to a narrow door of black wood. Half a dozen soldiers, northern-looking, were waiting. The door was guarded by an old man in a leather apron who was sitting at a table. He was very still and was staring hard at a whip that lay curled on the notched wood.

“Have you ever seen a pet dog look at a stick? He's like that. He can't wait to play,” the Results Man said.

The old man glanced up, then looked down again.

The Results Man took hold of the bolts in the door and pulled. It opened with a sucking noise, as if the air behind it was solid.

Holding the lantern, he led the way into a stench that made Flea gag. In the flaring torchlight he saw a short corridor. Off to the right was a storeroom, with broken jars littering the floor and a raised wellhead at the back. The flickering light made the shadows jump. Flea heard a sullen splash.

The old man followed and kicked out at a fat, gray-furred rat. It waddled away from them and squeezed into an impossibly small hole. Beyond the well room the corridor was lined with alcoves set over crude wooden hatches on the floor.

The Results Man knelt by the first trapdoor and lifted it. He shook his head. Same for the second one. When he opened the third one he grimaced and held his nose.

“Third time lucky,” he said. He flapped the trapdoor so it blew out gusts of stinking air like a bellows, then called down, “Hello! Got Flea up here. Says he wants to rescue you but I'm sure I don't know why. Aren't you happy here at my inn?”

Flea heard coughing quickly stifled and a voice call up, “Please don't throw water on us again.”

“But you were complaining about the dirt! I was only trying to help,” the Results Man said.

Flea pushed past him. “It's all right!” he shouted. “It's me. Flea! I've come to get you out.”

There was a pause. “Flea. Is it really you?”

“Yes.”

“We're sorry. We're so sorry. We didn't mean … to be so horrid to you. If you let us out, we'll promise to be nice.”

“I didn't turn you in because you bullied me,” Flea said. “You can't think that, can you? I was forced to. It was blackmail.”

“If you say so, Flea.”

Leaning against the wall was a rough ladder. Flea dragged it to the edge of the pit and slid it in.

“Climb the ladder. It's all right. You're free.”

A lot of whispering. “And if we don't?”

“This isn't a trap! Climb the ladder! You're free. Don't you see?”

He felt the ladder creak. Big was the first of the Temple Boys to stick his head out of the hole. He was filthy, his hair matted, and after four days in the dungeon he had lost weight. He cowered and kept his eyes screwed up tight, as if he were anticipating a blow at any moment.

When he eventually opened them, he looked around carefully. “I think it's all right,” he said, and went down into the pit again. The next time he appeared he had Clump hanging round his neck. Then he climbed up with Crutches and hauled himself onto the floor, panting.

Little Big was next, then Halo, then Snot, Gaga, the twins, Hole-in-the-Head, and Red last of all. They stood with their backs to the wall, heads down. There was an awkward silence.

“That's it,” Flea said. “We're free. Oh, and Crouch is fine, by the way.” He beamed at the Results Man. “A result.”

“You have no idea what you've achieved,” the Results Man said. “No idea at all. Now, to turn a good day into a great day, let's talk about plans. Good plans. Fun plans.”

“Oh,” Flea said. “I thought—”

“Didn't I say it doesn't matter what you think? Now, everyone follow me and off we go.”

And suddenly Flea was worried. The worry felt like bad food in his stomach.

“Follow you? Where?”

“I'm taking you to the one place you want to be. It's where you'll find your end, or a new beginning. Now move!” The Results Man's voice snapped.

“Tell us where we're going.”

“To the tomb where Yeshua is buried. We need to be there when he comes back to life. I don't think it's going to happen much before dawn, but we should hurry. I've spent the past five—no, six—days working toward it. You boys are the honey on the pastry. The lark's tongue in the jelly. The—you get my drift.”

“What are you asking us to do?” Flea moved over to where the Temple Boys were huddled against the wall, as far from the Results Man as possible.

“Asking? I'm not asking anything. Sometimes people come together against a common enemy. In this case, what could possibly unite the greatest power the world has ever seen—the source of all power and glory on earth—with a tiny cult in a dusty, forgotten corner of its great empire? What could unite Rome with your people? Come on, come on, think!”

Flea's mind was blank, but he knew he was not going to like the answer. He shook his head.