Temple Boys by Jamie Buxton Page A

bunch of parsley, straightened up, and ambled off in the same direction. Even though he was tall, he managed to look apologetic and insignificant as he bobbed and weaved through the crowd.
    Flea followed them south into the heart of the city, wondering how he could warn Jude without being spotted. When Jude paused at the entrance to the covered market—a warren of narrow streets, roofed over to keep the sun out in summer and the rain out in winter—Flea moved near a large woman whose bags were being carried by an equally large slave.
    He pushed closer, then waited while the tall man fiddled with his sandal strap. As soon as Jude plunged into the gloom of the market, the tall man followed and so did Flea.
    This is better, Flea thought. He knew the covered market. He’d spent days in here the winter before; sheltering from the cold and the gloom made it easier to steal from the stalls. He liked the smells that enveloped him: the head-rush of spices, the nose-tickle of soap and oil, the wide stink of blood and butchery. A shard of light speared through a hole in the roof and lit up the tall man. Flea could now see him more clearly. Thin lips in a bony, clean-shaven face curled into an empty, tortoise smile. Questioning, arched eyebrows cloaked quick, darting eyes.
    Flea squatted by a bucket of skinned sheep’s heads, trying to ignore the naked eyeballs. Maybe he can’t see you, but we can, they seemed to say.
    But the man had lost Jude. He swore under his breath and backtracked, stopping right in front of Flea, so close that the hem of his tunic brushed up against Flea’s upturned face. Flea smelled old smoke, but, more important, he saw a little pocket sewn into a fold of the garment right in front of his nose.
    Destiny! Flea thought. It would be criminal to let an opportunity like this pass.
    Flea’s hand dipped into the pocket and felt something small and smooth. He caught it between two fingers and when the man moved away, he just seemed to be left holding it. Palming it, he was about to set off again when two hands clamped down heavily on his shoulders.
    â€œWhere do you think you’re going?” Jude hissed in his ear. Flea had no idea where he’d come from.
    â€œThat man was following you,” he hissed back.
    â€œThe tall one? Where did he pick me up?”
    â€œJust outside the alleyway where you found the old man, the camel, and the donkey.”
    Jude’s eyes momentarily widened. “That far away? I only just noticed him. How close did you get to him?”
    â€œClose enough to get this.”
    Flea opened his hand to show the thing he had stolen: a small, carved ivory tube, about the size of a man’s middle finger and still pocket-warm.
    â€œNot so clever. He’s going to miss it. Wait a minute: describe him.”
    â€œWearing gray. Long neck. Looked like a tortoise. Black eyebrows. Smelled of smoke.”
    â€œDid he smile a lot?”
    â€œAll the time.”
    â€œCan you get us out of here?” Jude’s voice was suddenly urgent.
    â€œYes, I know this area.”
    â€œThen do it—and lose that thing you stole, whatever it is.”
    Flea nodded and was off. He knew many escape routes out of the market. The one he chose took them between a soap seller and a spice warehouse into a gap so narrow even he had to squeeze sideways. Then there was a wall to climb and a view down into a tiny roofless room where dull-eyed children picked through sacks of dried lentils and didn’t look up.
    Flea led Jude across the rooftops, crossing streets where the houses came close enough together to jump the gap and on until the streets widened and the houses were built out from the hillside. They stepped from a roof straight onto a small strip of carefully terraced garden.
    Jude checked the sun. “All right,” he said. “This is far enough. Now then, Flea. You and I need to talk.”

 
    15
    In the narrow garden was a pomegranate