The gypsies were dancing again, but perhaps that was too plain a word. They moved recklessly and yet with a perfect grace that few others could hope to match. Their bright clothing lit up the otherwise dull grey that was Paris.
It was a beautiful sight to behold with their bronzed skin gleaming in the sunlight and their dark hair swirling through the air as they leapt and spun. Their smiles were matched by all who watched but for one man, the Minister of Justice, Claude Frollo.
He was a skeletally thin man who loomed over his parishioners, especially when condemning them. His hair had turned silver with age and it shone like the polished metal of the rings that adorned his fingers.
One pale digit beat a solemn march on the arm of his straight backed, wooden chair. How he wished a gypsy would drop with every blow. He found them all to be such dirty, loathsome, creatures. A plague on his city.
He was not the only one who found them vile. Many of the people disliked and distrusted them but as Frollo studied the onlookers, he found their faces to be full of adoration and something almost like envy.
Frollo wrinkled his long nose in disgust.
Certainly, the gypsies had a hellish beauty about them, but they were sinners all the same.
Burdened with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to break the primal curse of the dance, he settled back into his chair and watched the dance with pursed lips and a stern countenance.
He found his eyes landing more than once on a young man who danced with twice the enthusiasm and speed of his friends.
His skin shone with a sheen of sweat from his exertions and thick, black hair curled around his ears.
Even from Frollo's seat he could see the boy's sea green eyes which were alight with laughter as he moved through the circle of dancers.
His clothes were outlandish in Frollo's opinion, but he thought that of all gypsy clothing. The boy's purple pants were no exception and he wore a teal and gold belt around his slim waist to contain the white shirt that hung open at the neck.
Why they couldn't dress like good Christian people, Frollo didn't know. But still, he had to admit, the boy would have looked stifled in the clothes of the commoners. Now, caught up in the midst of the dance he looked exquisitely wild and free.
Frollo wasn't the only one to have noticed the boy. The women were staring at him with adoration etched plainly on their faces and perhaps it was that open longing that caused the men to puff their chests and prowl about like dogs.
One man, who Frollo knew to be member of the city guard, cupped his hands around his mouth and called, "Hey, pretty boy! Leave the dancing to the women!"
The boy turned towards him with a grin and swayed his hips in a suggestive manner before winking and returning to his friends.
The guard turned scarlet and Frollo clutched his chair with bloodless knuckles, his nails scraping into the splintering wood.
The boy, unaware of the hatred being sent his way, leaned down from the stage and extended his hand to a young woman who was watching with wide eyes.
Electric rage shot through Frollo's body and he thundered, "Don't you dare!"
His words slammed into the crowd like leaden bullets and everything ground to a screeching halt.
The boy immediately straightened up and searched the crowd for the speaker. His eyes locked onto Frollo who had surged up from his seat.
"Do you wish to go to hell, woman?" Frollo shouted, shaking a hand at the now cowering girl. She shook her head, terror in her eyes, and darted out of sight.
The boy watched her go with a frown then said, "Why should she not dance?" His voice was heavily accented with the dialect of the mountain gypsies.
Frollo sneered at him. "The day I allow a good, Christian woman to join in your debauchery is the day I die!"
The boy looked him over head to toe, taking in the gray hair and the lines that age had carved onto Frollo's face. "Then she'll be dancing any day now."
The crowd gasped and the other gypsies exchanged nervous looks. The boy shared none of their concern and moved forward to the edge of the stage to stare down at Frollo.
"Do you know to whom you speak?" Frollo hissed.
"I must admit, I've not been in the city long," the boy laughed. "Feel free to enlighten me."
The humiliated guard from earlier moved to Frollo's side and brandished his spear in the boy's face. "Hold your tongue, rat! This is the Minister of Justice! You're not fit to lick his boots!"
The boy lazily flicked the spear out of his face and gave Frollo a dramatic bow.
"Well met, Minister. My name is Ezmere and you must forgive me. I had no idea we had attracted such an esteemed member of Parisian nobility to our humble dance." He straightened back up and now addressed the entire crowd. "But tell me, does your God condemn dance? Does the scripture not say, "'Let them praise His name with dancing; Let them sing praises to Him with timbrel and lyre.'"
Frollo was extremely taken aback and for a moment all he could do was gape at the boy. He wasn't used to having scripture quoted at him.
The crowd's gaze now shifted to Frollo to see how he would respond. It would have been wiser for them to leave, but this was drama of an untold scale. They wouldn't miss it for the world.
Frollo recovered quickly. "You blasphemous brat! How dare you use the blessed scripture to justify your crimes. You-"
But Ezmere had grown bored of Frollo's insults. He spun his tambourine in his hand and said, "A brat I may be, but blasphemous I am not. I can provide you with more verses if you'd like."
Before Frollo could stop him, he said so all could hear, "'Again I will build you and you will be rebuilt, O virgin of Israel! Again you will take up your tambourines, And go forth to the dances of the merrymakers.'" He flipped his tambourine high into the air and caught it with ease, his smile now aimed at the crowd. "I have a tambourine, do I not? Now all I need is a crowd of merrymakers! Who will dance with us in honor of your God?"
There was a great cheer as the music began again and the crowd joined in on the dancing.
Ezmere observed all this with a satisfied glint in his eyes.
"How dare you..." Frollo muttered, a thunderous rage building in his chest. He could not stop the crowd from dancing lest it seem he was contradicting the scripture Ezmere had quoted. He turned to the guard and muttered, "Take the gypsies under arrest. All of them."
Ezmere cast a glance over his shoulder at the other gypsies who were watching warily. This pleased Frollo. Perhaps the boy was new to Paris but the rest of them weren't.
When Frollo's gaze returned to the boy, he saw Ezmere grinning at him which only agitated him further.
"Surrender yourself and perhaps I will be merciful," Frollo said, though mercy was not his style. "After all, the noose is a quick death. It's nothing like the flames of a pyre."
Something flashed in Ezmere's eyes but then it was gone. "You are merciful beyond measure," he agreed dryly. He then vaulted off the stage and somersaulted over Frollo only to land behind him, graceful as a cat. His hand shot out and he snatched the tricorned hat from Frollo's head and set it down on his own dark curls.
"Arrest him!" Frollo screamed, all sense of decorum lost. "Arrest him now!"
Ezmere laughed and darted up the steps to Frollo's chair and threw himself into the seat. He sat back with his legs thrown over the arm and within seconds, was surrounded by a thicket of spears from more guards who had joined the skirmish.
Ezmere was unconcerned by the weapons. He withdrew a pouch from his pocket and began eating bits of dried fruit. He offered the bag to the guards but chuckled when the motion was met with growls. He threw the bag to them anyways and settled back in the chair as if napping, one hand still on the hat to keep it on his head.
Frollo pushed through the guards to the chair, his hands curled into fists. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't have you killed on the spot."
Ezmere now pulled the hat up enough that Frollo caught a glimpse of one brilliant, green eye. "Well you wouldn't want to get my filthy, gypsy blood all over this hat now would you?"
Frollo reached out and ripped the hat from Ezmere's head. His hands were shaking with a cold hatred. "Get on your knees, you vile creature!"
Ezmere considered this, then said, "No."
Several muscles in Frollo's cheek twitched as he spat again, "Get on your knees! Jackson, run him through."
Ezmere had stiffened at his words but then he looked to the guard named Jackson and his face split into an evil grin. "Oh, don't make Jackson kill me! He thinks I'm pretty!"
As all eyes turned to Jackson, Ezmere suddenly leapt from the chair, grabbed a handful of powder from his pocket and threw it to the ground. There was a loud bang and copious amounts of red smoke coiled through the air. Chaos ensued.
Frollo was shoved this way and that as his guards blundered about in confusion.
A hand landed on his shoulder and he sensed someone come up behind him. The musky smell of spices, sweat and earth came to his nostrils. It was the boy.
A thrill shot through Frollo's body as Ezmere pulled him back. He hit the young man's chest and suppressed a shiver at the feeling of rock hard muscle. He could feel Ezmere's warm breath on his neck and goosebumps erupted on his skin as Ezmere whispered, "Take caution, continue on this violent path and you will find yourself on the opposite side of the god you profess to serve."
He took his hand from Frollo's shoulder and took a few steps back, his arms spread wide as he taunted, "And gypsies aren't eager to go to their knees." He paused and gave Frollo a quick once over. "At least not for men like you."
Then, he was gone.
Frollo stood alone, his chest heaving as the smoke began to clear. The dancing had stopped and the crowd had finally fled, fearing Frollo's retribution.
His heart was still beating a frantic pace but he let none of his emotions show on his face as he wiped a fine layer of ash from his robes. The gypsies were long gone. Frollo guessed they'd ran while Ezmere distracted the crowd.
"I want that taken down," he said motioning to wooden stage. He reached out and grabbed Jackson's arm, pulling the other man close. "And I want that boy. He must pay for his crimes."
Jackson nodded and began barking orders.
Frollo turned to face the dark alley where the gypsies had run. He knew that it led to their hovels and dilapidated tents on the edge of the city. He was sure the boy was there now, doubtless laughing about how he had humiliated the great Minister of Justice.
Frollo's lips pulled back into a silent snarl. No matter how long it took, the boy would pay. He would go to his knees.