Temple Boys. Jamie Buxton

horse was pulling back its lips to show long red teeth, jagged as saws. The feathers on its wings were as sharp as swords – one sweep of them and Roman heads would tumble. But the archers on the battlements had seen the threat. Now they were pulling their bows back into quivering arcs.

      ‘Watch out!’ Flea cried. And as the arrows leapt upwards in a black swarm the magician raised his right arm. Fire shot from an outstretched finger and he drew it across the blue dome of the sky to create a blazing barrier so the archers’ arrows flamed and fell in charred twists. Now he started shooting his own arrows. They smashed into the battlements, turning soldiers into flaming, screaming, dancing monsters before they tumbled to their deaths.

      The magician reined in his snorting steed and circled Flea’s tree in his chariot, wreathed in smoke, shining with strength, and at the sight of him, the crowd fell to the ground, wailing and moaning in terror.

      Only Flea – Flea the Brave, Flea the Magnificent – dared to meet his calm and level gaze.

      ‘Well done, courageous Flea. You have saved me, you have saved your friends and you have saved your City. As your reward, Flea . . . Flea . . . FLEA, you idiot! Wake up! What are you doing up there?’

      Flea blinked and looked down. Big and most of the rest of the gang were at the bottom of the tree.

      ‘What’s going on, insect?’

      ‘Nothing,’ Flea said. ‘Nothing.’

      ‘Well, since you’re up there, keep watching! Don’t go all la la like you usually do.’

      Big opened his mouth into a stupid gape and rolled his eyes up into his head. Flea scowled across the crowded bridge.

      And really did see something.

7

      On the other side of the valley, a dense little group was moving down the road from Olive Tree Hill with purpose. People seemed to be clearing the road ahead of it. Above the background noise Flea thought he could hear faint cheers.

      ‘Something’s happening!’ he called down to Big, who grabbed Snot. Together, they wormed their way through the crowd towards the bridge. Halo scrabbled up into the tree with Flea and Red. Flea helped him on to the branch and held him tight. Halo was inclined to get excited and fall off things.

      In the middle of the bridge, the stuck donkey had managed to back the cart hard against the parapet, the camel was attempting to turn sideways and a man carrying a pitcher of water was stuck between them, trying desperately not to let it fall. At the same time, the heaving press of people was stopping any man or beast from going backwards or forwards and more people were trying to squeeze on to the bridge all the time. To cap matters off, Flea saw Big and Snot jump on to the cart and start stamping and yelling in imitation of the driver.

      Problem. They were making so much noise they’d attracted the attention of the Imps. The two Temple Boys on the cart showed clearly above the heads of the crowd and made easy targets for the soldiers, who started to shoulder their way towards them, all leather plates and polished buckles.

      And now something strange was happening on the far side of the bridge, behind the soldier’s backs.

      The little group Flea had seen had arrived and the crowd started moving to either side of the road. Some of the people bowed their heads. Others put their hands across their chests as a mark of respect. Some even knelt, so at last Flea could see them from his vantage point . . . Not a wizard in his flaming chariot with an army of demons, but a dozen or so of the shabbiest travellers that Flea had ever seen.

      This was the Chosen One and his followers? This bunch of dusty tramps? But Flea couldn’t be disappointed for too long, because things on the bridge were looking horrible for Big and Snot. They were still jumping up and down on the cart, but with their backs to the approaching Imps. They had no idea of the danger they were in.

      Flea saw the Imps look at each other, saw the metal flash as they drew swords. The man with the pitcher dropped it and it shattered. He yelled a warning at the boys on the cart, but could not make himself heard. Then a small man in a dusty grey robe was suddenly standing between the soldiers and the boys, hands outstretched, palms out.

      He was one of the travellers and Flea couldn’t work out how he had moved so fast.

      The Imps stopped and stared, swords still raised. Flea held his breath. The Imps would smack him with their shields, batter him with their sword hilts, and when they’d finished with him they’d turn on Big and Snot.

      But the small man just stood there and smiled. And smiled. And smiled.

8

      The soldiers looked at each other. Sunlight glinted on their swords.

      ‘What do you want?’ one of them asked the small man in his harsh, foreign accent. His voice carried over the hushed crowd.

      ‘I’m sorry, friends,’ the small man said. ‘I just thought I might be able to help with this traffic jam.’

      He had narrow shoulders and a dramatic head, with long hair swept back from a widow’s peak and dark, dark eyes set between a heavy brow and a boxer’s cheekbones. His tunic might have been brown once and was now fading to grey, or perhaps it had been grey and was so stained it seemed brown.

      At this moment the donkey gave a short, despairing honk and sat down. The cart tipped over, throwing Snot and Big down so they sprawled in the dust between the small man and the Imps.

      The crowd had fallen silent and the mood had changed. All eyes were on the Imps. People were watchful, but ready. Flea saw the Imps’ eyes darting to the right and the left as they were forced to reconsider. No help anywhere near. Massively outnumbered.

      They slid their swords back into scabbards. ‘Get on with it, then.’

      The small man helped Big to his feet, then Snot, who sniffed marshily and gobbed.

      ‘Nice,’ the small man said. Then, ‘Tell you what, why don’t you unhitch that unfortunate beast and walk it over here to me? Think you could do that?’ A showman’s smile lit up every part of his face. Big pointed to himself, then at the donkey. ‘Me?’ he asked.

      ‘Only if you’re not too busy,’ the small man said.

      Another of the travellers – skinny with cropped, rust-coloured hair and dressed in a striped robe – joined them. He showed Big how to free the donkey from the shafts and Snot how to calm it. Then Big and Snot led the donkey out of the chaos and over to the far side of the bridge. The small man climbed on to its back and, suddenly, the world went mad.

      People began cheering, shouted, surged forwards, surged back. On the other side of the road a man shinned up a dusty date palm. He started pulling the leaves and branches from it and throwing them down. People caught them. Some waved them; others threw them under the hooves of the donkey. The man’s fellow travellers pushed ahead of him, somehow forcing a clear way down the middle of the bridge.

      ‘Did you see that? Did you see what the magician did?’ Red shouted.

      ‘Is that him? Are you sure? He just looks like a tramp to me,’ said Flea.

      ‘He only went and saved Big and Snot. He only stopped the Imps arresting them. He only rubbed their Roman noses in the dirt.’ Red slapped Flea on the back, held up Halo so he could have a look, slapped Flea again.

      Flea could not get excited. Disappointment didn’t do justice to his feelings; betrayal was more like it. This small man with the showman’s smile could not be a famous magician, let alone the Chosen One. It was the biggest let-down of his life.

      ‘That can’t really be him, can it?’

      ‘You’re