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cautiously. The Arab was
pointing at striations in the paving slabs. 'That,' he announced, smiling
proudly, 'is the spot where the Roman soldiers cast dice for Jesus' clothes.'
    'You're
joking!' cried Tom, squatting down to look more closely. Sure enough, there
were rough carvings, undoubtedly ancient, of squares and circles divided into
segments.
    'I don't
joke,' said the boy. 'It's famous. It was a game they played with dice.'
    Tom
ran a finger along the striations in the warm stone. When he stood up again,
two other boys came to see what the fuss was about. 'Do you like it?' said the
first.
    'It's amazing.'
    'My
pleasure. I enjoy showing it to friends from England.'
    'Thank you.'
    He smiled
broadly. His friend smiled too, nodding approval. 'Do you want a guide?'
    The light
suddenly dawned on Tom. He stepped back. 'No. Sorry. I can't afford a guide.'
    The young
man was still smiling. 'Really? I'm a good guide. I know everything in this
city.'
    'Thanks, but no.'
    The Arab's
features darkened. His friends' faces also darkened. 'Would you like,' he said,
'to give me something for this?'
    'For what?'
    'For showing
you this.' He held out a leathery hand for money. Now he appeared less than
handsome. Tom looked round. No one else was near.
    Tom was a
tall man, and, though never violent, he liked to think he could take care of
himself. Yet it seemed senseless for a coin. He handed over a couple of shekels
and chalked the slate of experience.
    'It's not enough,' said the Arab, moving
in.
    Tom locked
eyes with him. 'Suppose I just smack your head against the wall instead?'
    The Arab boy
jumped aside as Tom made a half-hearted effort to snatch back his coin. Tom
moved on, ignoring the mouthings from behind him.
    He knew that
if he followed the Via Dolorosa, he would come at last to the Holy Sepulchre,
but the encounter with the Arab youth had unnerved him. He walked quickly along
the Via, ignoring the plaques and the history and the antiquities accruing
around him. Here there were more tourists. Another Arab made a hissing noise,
beckoning. He played deaf.
    At the Holy Sepulchre he
was dismayed to see an enormous queue of pilgrims waiting to go into the tomb.
It was possible to enter the church built over the sepulchre, a vast, domed
structure owned by the Greek Orthodoxy, so long as he didn't want to go into
the tomb itself. The air was heavy with incense; icons winked in the russet
gloom. Some untoward scene was taking place at the front of the queue.
Uniformed church guards were dragging away weeping elderly Greek women in
widows' black who evidently didn't want to leave the tomb. The pilgrims at the
front of the queue looked sheepish; the guards behaved as though this was a
daily occurrence.
    Tom felt
slightly sickened by the brawl. He wandered behind the tomb, where, at the back
of the rock, a small shrine was sunk into the floor. He peered in at a tiny
altar resplendent with gold and silver icons. Candles flickered within, and the
crevice was smoky with incense. By stooping he could just about squeeze into
the darkened shrine.
    'Welcome!' A
fat black spider with a human head popped up from the shadowy recess. Tom
stepped back and cracked his head on the rock. 'Welcome!' It was a priest in
Eastern Orthodox stovepipe hat, crouched in the far corner of the shrine,
swathed in black robes. His grey beard reached to his waist and tucked into his
belt. Eyes glittering, he nodded enthusiastically at Tom.
    'Fuck!' said
Tom, nursing his head. His harsh words to the Arab youth echoed back at him.
'Fuck!' Then he remembered where he was, so he said, 'Shit! Oh, Jesus!'
    'Yes!
Welcome!' This was obviously the limit of the holy man's English. The
spider-priest reached up and touched Tom's brow. He removed his hand quickly,
making a hissing sound and shaking his head. 'Bad!' Then he pressed into Tom's
palm a small plastic crucifix. 'Donation!' he said, holding out his hand,
smiling brightly.
    Tom
glared back before fumbling for a few shekels.