by Jamie Buxton
“Or something so simple only a child could be stupid enough to think it. But do you really think we’re that stupid? The Chosen One is betrayed, dies, and then comes back to life. Praise be!”
“He didn’t. I was there.”
“Child, he comes back to life after three days.”
“What?”
“It takes three days for the power to gather. That is the prophecy.”
Flea looked around the room and saw that the faces of the followers weren’t defeated. They were tense, as if they were waiting. His confidence collapsed like an empty anthill.
“How…” Flea began but he didn’t know what more to say. How? seemed to sum up how he was feeling right then. How will this happen? How will you know? How can you have the patience? “But that’s tomorrow.”
“Indeed. Do you know the story of Jonah and the whale?” Mat asked. “For three days he lay in its belly before he was released onto the shore alive.”
“That’s just a story,” Flea said faintly.
“Be ready for the third day. That’s from Moshe’s Book of the Leaving. And later it says, ‘Let them be ready for the third day.’ In the Book of the Kings, we read: ‘On the third day, you shall go to the house of the Lord.’ And in our Holy Book of the Beginning: ‘On the third day, Joseph said, do this and you will live.’ Yeshua our Lord will lie in his grave for three days as a dead man and on the third he will reanimate. He will revive. He will come back to life. He will rise again.”
“Praise be! Praise be! Praise be!”
“It’s just words!” Flea said. “He can’t!”
Mat nearly smiled. “In all the long days we were traveling to the city our Lord tried to convince us with words, but we were weak and blind, like you. We did not have faith. And then, just a day’s walk away we saw it with our own eyes. In Bethany.”
“What happened there?” Flea’s voice was a whisper. Now he remembered about Bethany. He had heard Shim and Jude mention it on the night of the supper in Yusuf’s house. And Jude had been appalled by something that happened there …
“We walked from Gilgal,” Mat said. “We knew we would be in for a hard time when we reached the city, so we wanted a place to rest close by, to gather our thoughts and strength. Are you listening? The place we normally stayed was in the house of a friend, Eleazar. Laz, we called him. But when we reached his house, we found it in mourning. Eleazar had died and was three days in his grave.” He paused. “Our Lord brought him back to life.”
“No.”
“Yes. Yeshua broke his tomb open and walked inside. No one would follow. The stench … Anyway, an hour later he walked out, with Eleazar by his side.”
Flea put his fingers in his ears and shouted, “Wordswordswordswords.”
Tauma grabbed Flea’s hands, pulled them away, and said, “Listen! Jude always said you were clever and Yeshua agreed with him. He said that if we could convince Flea, we could convince the world.”
Mat made a face, then said: “Call him forth, Yohan. Bring Eleazar to Flea so he can witness the miracle. The dead can walk. The dead can live!”
Tauma held Flea again. Yohan left the room and walked across the little courtyard to a shed on the far side. He knocked on the door and stood back. Flea’s mouth went dry as the door opened. A pause, then very slowly a man stepped into the early evening. His skin was the color of sour milk and his eyes had sunk back into his head. He took a step into the sunlight and winced. In the room, the followers winced too. Flea felt the hairs on the back of his neck lift and fought the scream rising in his tightening throat. The man stepped back into the shadows.
“Eleazar was dead and is now alive,” Mat chanted. “He grows stronger every day. It can happen. Yeshua is the Chosen One. Since the world began and the stars began to move around the heavens and Adam first met Eve it has been waiting for this moment. A new world is coming. All will be unmade and then remade and the dawn will be the light of our Lord!”
“No,” Flea said. “No.”
“Do you understand now, Flea? We did not have to kill Jude. His life and his death were foretold from the moment he was born, and so shall we all die to be reborn in the new world! Nothing can change the prophecy! The day is coming! The time is coming! The end of time and the end of days!”
His words were echoed around the room.
“Praise be! Praise be! Praise be!”
“Tell the city. Tell the people. Tell the world. Spread the word!”
Tauma led Flea out of the room. “Do you hear that, sonny?” he said. “It means Mat’s decided that we’re letting you go. It’s what Yesh would have wanted. We’ll all be standing in front of him tomorrow, giving a full account of our actions.”
“Do you really believe that?” Flea asked.
For a second Tauma’s face went blank, then he smiled. “I suppose you could call me a seeing-is-believing sort of man, but in the end it doesn’t matter what I think, does it? What will be, will be. And no one will be happier than me to see Yesh again. Walking. Talking.”
“Killing Romans?”
“It won’t be like that. It’ll be different. It’ll be a change.”
“But what can I do?”
“Between now and then? Try to put right anything you did wrong, and tell the world the news.”
“About what? About Jude?”
“Forget about Jude. He was using you. Do something for yourself. Ask yourself, what do you want to do? What’s best for you in this short time?”
“I want to—”
“Don’t talk. Do. Now, go, before Mat changes his mind.”
Flea left, an idea growing in his mind until it blotted out everything else.
51
Tesha alerted him with a long, low whistle. She stepped from behind an abandoned cart.
“What took you so long? Are you all right? I was beginning to get scared.”
“I’m fine.” Flea found himself suddenly breathless. “I know all about it now. We were right and we were wrong. Nothing was ever going to happen when Yesh died, and you were right: he couldn’t change the world when he was dead. We just missed the obvious. The real prophecy says he’s coming back to life first. And then the big change comes.”
Tesha stared at him blankly, then asked, “When?”
“Tomorrow. They told me to … do whatever I had to do before it all happens.”
“And what’s that? What’s the big change?”
“The end of the world.”
“Oh, just that?” Tesha sounded sarcastic. “So what’s the point of doing anything?”
“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 o
r 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 m
an 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.”