Temple Boys Read Online Free PDF Page A

hall and on into the Temple itself.
    The outer court covered the entire top of the Holy Mountain and was like another world—a flat, bright land of white flagstones, bounded by painted pillars, hemmed by golden rooftops. It had its own noise: a buzz of holiness and a hum of chants, pierced by cries and shouts.
    Right in front of Flea, a fanatic from the northern desert—one of the Ranting Dunkers—was screaming about the end of the Temple, the end of the city, and the end of everything! The farmers surrounding him seemed more interested in the insect life in his hair than his words, and Flea wondered how long he’d last before the Police threw him out.
    Flea climbed onto a wicker chest crammed with black-market doves and looked around. To his right a class of trainee priests were humming like bees and swaying like wheat in the breeze as they recited words from the Holy Book. To his left, parents rested while their children played tag around the pillars of the colonnade and kicked the priests’ shadows up the arse. Behind him, official money changers were yelling out their rates, and dealers were trying to entice the crowds to buy their doves and lambs (“All blessed! All perfect! All pure!”) for sacrifice.
    But straight ahead and close to the entrance of the inner courts was a surging knot of people. Flea ran across the marble flagstones and wriggled through the crush to the front. The crowd was pressed around a clear space where the magician was being confronted by two priests from the Temple. The priests were plump and sleek, white robes shining, oiled hair gleaming. “So, what are you calling yourself these days?” one of the priests asked in a loud, carrying voice. “Yeshua, the Great Conjuror of Gilgal, or Master? Don’t tell me you want people to call you Lord!” he laughed.
    Flea was taken aback. First he was the Chosen One. Now he was Master or Lord. Right then, in contrast with the priests, the magician looked even smaller and dirtier than he had on the bridge.
    â€œOh, and don’t be surprised that we know who you are,” the priest continued derisively. “I remember when you were considered a bit of a star: the wonder child who toddled up those steps into the Council Chamber twenty-five years ago and kept the old men riveted with your wisdom. But you couldn’t cut it, could you? Couldn’t stick the course. Or do you really expect us to believe that you prefer to tramp around with a band of tarts, thieves, and collaborators?”
    Interesting, Flea thought, and he peered at the magician to see if any traces of a wonder child remained. Not as far as he could see, but Flea had to admit that the man was quite a cool customer. He had lowered his eyes and was idly tracing shapes on the flagstones with his toe.
    The priest blustered on. “We’re waiting, Yeshua. Did you hear my question? Or do we have to pay you to talk these days?”
    Everyone was watching now and Flea began to find the whole thing very interesting indeed. In fact, the hair on the back of his neck was prickling, because he had suddenly realized that it wasn’t just pickpockets who played with misdirection. It was magicians, too. Because even though the magician was saying nothing, he had the eyes of the crowd, and the less he spoke, the more they stared at him.
    Flea let his eyes drift around, trying to work out what was really happening. There!
    The rusty-haired man with the striped robes who had helped Big and Snot with the donkey was the only person in the crowd not looking at the magician. Instead, he was rummaging gently in his shoulder bag.
    The priest was growing annoyed. “I’m disappointed,” he said. “Perhaps your life as a tramp and a beggar has addled your brain, because I thought you came here to talk. I know, let’s see if you can answer a direct question. How about this one: Have you got any money on you, or do you think you’re so