Chapter 21:
The morning's muster had been so uneventful, and so sparse on guardsmen, that Phoebus had mistaken these signs for evidence that Frollo had gone quiet. After all, business was proceeding as usual, and there were no major conflicts in the city.
Instead, he passed the cathedral to check on the guards there, and found a soldier on the steps calling for the Archdeacon to allow the soldiers in. "We must verify that the gypsy is in your custody!"
he was shouting impotently.
Phoebus couldn't help but smirk before they saw him, and approached them carefully while wiping away his smugness. "Don't antagonize the churchmen," he said with gentle authority. "Remember, we do our duty in the face of God, so don't spit in it."
The soldiers turned bewildered faces his way.
"I know, Frollo is more than likely pushing you," he acknowledged, "but remember that he is a pious man, and he answers to God above all."
The soldiers stood at silent attention, glancing around as if Frollo could be anywhere, watching them and critiquing their every movement.
Phoebus gazed instead at the looming Palace of Justice across the way. He could almost see the crouched figure of Frollo poring over some dark and hideous volume of alchemical lore. If he was still of this world, he may not leave that dank study to chasten his men.
However, the soldiers did not need to know that they were reporting directly to a mad hobgoblin judge who was half past sanity on the road to ruin.
He couldn't risk them turning on him and reporting his notions to Frollo. War hero or not, he would not escape the consequences, and he so wanted to live.
An idea struck him and he grinned, holding up the letter. "Who wants to send out a message for me? I'll need two gentlemen, and I'll pay you extra. The church doesn't need so much guarding, she's only one girl, and you'll need two men per door."
They looked at one another, before at last two men stepped forward to take the letter to his parents.
Inwardly, Phoebus was just glad he'd rid the city of two men at Frollo's disposal. If something went pear-shaped, it would serve best to divert as many soldiers from within the city limits as possible.
Unless of course there was a riot. Then, it wouldn't help anyone.
He spared some time giving directions to the volunteer messengers, then patrolled the perimeter of the church, instructing the men not to harass anyone who simply wanted to pray. "We cannot afford to become the enemy of the peasantry. Recall what happens when the peasants revolt, there is bloodshed on both sides, and it always ends in tragedy. We as the guards and citizens of Paris must respect the dignity of those who come to worship, even in the darkest of days."
His instructions seemed to sink in, but he couldn't tell for certain. Not when they had already been in the grip of Frollo for so long, and their loyalties could not be trusted to sway with so little prompting.
At least it was a beginning, if not an accomplished feat.
Phoebus left the cathedral steps, and went to check on Achilles, safe in his posh accommodations at the barracks. He wondered if, were matters to calm down, Esmeralda would like to ride on horseback.
Ah, but would it ever be acceptable to have relations with an Egyptian? For a man such as he, the question was a precarious one. He had his family honor to think of, as well as the marital prospects of his younger sister.
Secretive trysts were one thing, but if word were to spread? What would become of them all?
Even with such considerations in mind, when he saw a cloaked figure while he was leaving the barracks stable, Phoebus's heart jumped at the sight.
He took a quick step in the direction of the cloaked figure, before realizing that the cloak was the wrong shade… Was he being followed by someone other than Esmeralda?
The hair rose on the back of his neck, and he rushed about his business. It was a simple enough matter to secure some food that Esmeralda would find charming.
There were some (semi-) fresh grapes, and cheese that didn't smell too fancy, and also some pastries. Women liked pastries, if he wasn't misremembering something his sister had told him.
He glanced over his shoulder once more at the cloaked figure. Why hadn't this person stopped following him, already?
It may be time for a confrontation… could he afford it? He checked the streets.
There were still some stragglers about their business in the last fading moments of sunlight, but that would be as many as he needed to cover his confrontation effectively, so he tied the bag of food to his belt, and approached the shadowed figure with his sword drawn.
"Halt!" he cried when he saw the cloaked figure run back through the alley.
However, he did not particularly desire to explain butchering someone in the streets, so instead he sheathed his sword, and hurried along back the way he had come in order to find Esmeralda.
His reaction upon actually seeing her did not make him proud, as he confused her with the sinister figure which had menaced him from the shadows.
"Ai, dios mio!" Esmeralda cried at the sight of his drawing his sword. "It's just me!"
Phoebus stood frozen for a sheepish moment, before again sheathing his sword. "Wait in the shadows a little longer while I open my door," he said carefully, and surprisingly, she actually obeyed.
Even when they were alone in his house, and he had drawn the curtain over the window, Phoebus could not relax.
"What happened?" Esmeralda asked him, setting down a wineskin and a pair of roasted pigeons.
He had to tell her, as it could be her the figure meant to investigate. "I found someone on the streets… someone who I think was watching us… it doesn't sit well with me."
Esmeralda reached over to set a hand on his. "Don't worry, I won't let anyone in a cloak get the best of me." She was smiling at him, and eased him into a chair. "I'm sorry the pigeon is cold now… what did you get?"
Phoebus set out all the quarry he had hunted down, and watched her eyes widen with delight.
"These are beautiful!" she exclaimed, and her hand darted out to take one, but she paused. "I… should ask if you want this…"
"I want you to have it," he said gently. Was it insulting? "I bout it for you… I know… ladies usually like pastries, so… as much as I like them, too, I thought…" he blushed at having gotten stuck in his tangled mess, but at least she had probably understood that he didn't mean to offend her.
She snickered at him and snatched up the pastry, eating it so quickly she was soon disappointed by its absence, and grabbed the next one.
Phoebus chuckled softly as he watched, and politely ate the cold pigeon. He hadn't left the fire on in his hearth while he was out for fear of the whole city block catching fire, but he wished he had in order to heat the pigeon. It was like field rations, he told himself, and he would be gracious.
"I don't think I've ever eaten a proper meal with someone I'm not related to," Esmeralda observed.
"It has been a long time since I ate across from someone I actually wanted to," Phoebus responded with a chuckle. "But I'm glad it got to be you."
"I knew you were different…" she murmured. "I think… you and I can be the start of something different. If it's fate or God or chance we have an opportunity to turn our friendship into something that could make a change."
"Do you really believe that?" he asked.
"I do! Someday… people will live in a different world… changes are springing up every day, you know? Maybe all it takes are these new ways of doing things… people won't think of themselves as so different… and it'll be… I don't know…" Her hand went to her heart, and she seemed peaceful in her assurance that it would be so.
A change came over her features then, and he did not know what to expect from behind that wily simile.
"Sastimaso," she said, lifting the wine skin as if she were proposing a toast.
Phoebus stared at her, trying to turn it all over in his mind until it came out as something recognizably French that he could understand without it being garbled.
"It's in my language," she explained, "the language of my people… I've been all over Europe, I've picked languages up from the peoples I've met, but my people still have a tongue of our own."
Phoebus barely restrained a comment about how he wanted to get to know her tongue better, instead he bit his own. "What does it mean?"
"To your health, just like what you say when you make a toast." She lifted the wine skin again, and this time she said it slowly so that he could say it along with her.
Phoebus considered the wine. The last time he'd drunk, he had remembered what had happened to him before the blessing of leaving the front… what would he reveal to her now if he tried to drink joyfully with her?
"Don't you want to?" she asked him.
"I… darling, to be blunt… there are things that drink dredges up in me nowadays…" he gulped. "I fear those memories but I fear you seeing me as something… less than romantic. I have been called a war hero ever since I've returned, and… Well, you know I kind of like it that way."
The mischief in her smile was replaced by a gentle kindness. "I understand… but maybe I can work a little… magic?" she got to her feet, and took a quick swig of the wine.
"Not real magic, right?" Phoebus asked, suddenly remembering the stories his mother had told him when he was a child, as well as the tales he and the men at the front had exchanged over fires when the cold threatened to steal their lives away before a sword had the chance.
"I'll leave it up to you to decide," she said, and took a deep drink from the wine skin, which she then passed to him before twirling before him.
There was no music, but she twirled a green scarf along with her movements, and the coins on her garments clinked merrily with her every movements. She occasionally clapped to punctuate something especially acrobatic she'd done. "Hey, soldier boy, I see you staring!" she snickered at him in a sing-song manner.
Phoebus blushed. "I-I'm sorry, I thought it would be rude not to."
She laughed without malice. "It was a joke."
"Oh," he said softly, the wind quickly draining from his lungs when she leaned close and tiped more wine into his mouth.
With it, as expected, came the unwelcome memories. The stench of death and rotting flesh, the cries of the dying…
Esmeralda leaned close again, and her warm hand caressed his jaw. Suddenly, instead of death, he smelled her.
She pulled back again and rather than the cries of long-dead soldiers, he heard the jingling of her coin belt. "Eat," she told him, and he obeyed.
The pigeon did not seven taste as bland and cold as he remembered, and more than that, she began to sing to him.
"Bohemienne…" she began, and he leaned back just to listen to her smoky voice as she told a tale of wandering in search of home.
He couldn't help letting her lull him to sleep, both with the wine and the dreams resultant from it and the song. When he woke with the first chinks of light which fought their way through the curtains, she was gone.