"The Roma use various forms of deception and pretense to protect themselves. For one...local authorities often try to control the Roma by arresting their 'King.' The 'King of the Gypsies,' however, is an individual, usually of low standing, who places himself in the position of an ad hoc liaison between the Roma and the gaje (non-Roma). Thus, the arrest of the 'King' harms the Roma very little." -Minority Rights; the Failure of International Law to Protect the Roma, by Mary Ellen Tsekos, Washington College of Law Human Rights Brief volume 9 issue 3
"When Aaron has finished making atonement for the Most Holy Place, the tent of meeting and the altar, he shall bring forward the live is to lay both hands on the head of the live goat and confess over it all the wickedness and rebellion of the Israelites—all their sins—and put them on the goat's head. He shall send the goat away into the wilderness in the care of someone appointed for the task. The goat will carry on itself all their sins to a remote place; and the man shall release it in the wilderness." -Leviticus 16:20-22 NIV
"It's damp and dark and stinks of sewage."
"Exactly! It's the perfect place because the gadjes will never think to look there!"
"And what of disease? Or cave-ins? It would take nothing short of a miracle to get the place even remotely livable!"
"Well, there will need to be ventilation shafts reinforced or dug anew. But I've got ideas for all that too! Ideas to make miracles happen! Trust me, my friend, this is by far the best option for our tribe."
Rom Baro stroked his beard as he studied the overly eager young man before him. The kid was barely out of his teens, with a pathetic smattering of stubble where he apparently hoped to grow a goatee. He was a lowly grifter in the tribe. But a talented one. He had perfected the role of a doddering, stumbling old man, which he used to beg for coins or to distract a mark while stealing food. Sometimes he would get so deeply into character that his "old man" became a senile, slobbering mess that had women wailing over his poor, decrepit state. It was such an effective game that he had ceased to be known even among the tribe by the name his mother had given him, and was much better known as le Clopin Trouillefou—the stumbling, mad fool. And yet the very next hour after his signature act, that same "mad fool" would be dressed as a clown while juggling, tumbling, performing puppetry for local children, making them laugh uproariously, and earning still more of the people's coin. He was bright, talented, and full of energy and ambition. This lad was sure to go far.
But as things stood now, Clopin was barely a name in Rom Baro's consciousness. While all of his people were of lowly birth compared to the Europeans surrounding them, Clopin was almost as low ranking as a Rom could get. If they still exercised the caste system that their ancestors had been subjected to in their homeland, Clopin would be considered an untouchable even among the untouchables. And the plan he had now was, frankly, every bit as mad as his namesake character. But it was also the only plan that had yet been offered. And it was just the sort of plan that was mad enough to work.
"Alright, lad, we'll try it your way, at least until something better comes along. But...you are to take the lead in guarding our new home from the gadjes. If they come looking for us..."
"I promise you, Rom Baro, they will never find us!" Clopin held up a hand in an oath.
"Mmm," Rom Baro grunted. "So you say. But if they do, you will have a very special role to play."
Clopin's face lit up. "And what's that?"
"You, Clopin Trouillefou, are to surrender yourself as the King of Gypsies."
"Ah...what?" Clopin's smile melted into a look of utter confusion, his brow furrowed.
Rom Baro smiled deviously. "It's simple, really. The gadjes want to know exactly how our people's leadership structures work, and they are convinced that they will destroy us by capturing our leaders. If they are equally convinced that they have our 'king' in their possession, they will be content to ignore the rest of us, believing we will fall apart and be easy to pick off later. Meanwhile, the rest of the tribe escapes to live another day, little worse off for the loss of one of our lowly members."
"Ah-huh," Clopin mumbled, suddenly much less sure of his brilliant plan. He'd felt so proud discovering this new hiding place. Surely it would net him some points with the head of the tribe. But all that sense of accomplishment wafted away as his ego deflated. He was still just a lowly beggar, and always would be. And now, he was considered totally expendable.
Rom Baro clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Don't worry, lad, you'll only have to throw yourself on the mercy of the gadjes if they find our new hiding place, which you've assured me they never will."
Well. Clopin admitted to himself that that was...fair. Or as fair as things could get when his people had been living in permanent survival mode for much of the last three centuries. But then he smiled as another thought came to him. He had to get in the last jab.
"Well, Rom Baro, every king needs a court. And since it will take a miracle to make our new home a home to be proud of, we shall call it...the Court of Miracles!"
Rom Baro pinched the bridge of his nose and then ran his hand down his face, releasing a longsuffering sigh as he did so. This boy survived on pure audacity alone. The Romani leader could only hope and pray that Clopin managed enough of that audacity to spare all of them a grisly fate at the hands of their enemies.
Fifteen years later, Clopin had indeed managed to grow a fine goatee. The Court of Miracles thrived against all odds, and Clopin was not humble about it. Not even remotely. To hear him tell the story—complete with puppets—one would think he'd singlehandedly saved his entire tribe from a great holocaust. Despite his often insufferable ego, Clopin had a charisma and charm that endeared people to him against their better judgment (and they'd openly admit it). He steadily rose in the ranks, and even impressed high ranking members of nomadic tribes that passed through Paris. Yet he retained his title of Gypsy King, appointed to the role of bearing the penalty for his people's sins should the Parisian law ever come to call them to account. And with Judge Claude Frollo presiding over all of Paris' courts and legal proceedings for the past decade, life was more dangerous than ever for the Roma.
It was Rom Baro's hope that if Clopin were ever caught, the fact that the Court of Miracles was his baby would be more than enough to keep him from giving up the rest of the tribe. Of course, the fact that Clopin now had children to look after also meant that Rom Baro would be obligated to put at least some effort into mounting a rescue. Young Esmeralda had no one else, and was shielded from the cruelties of life, even within the Court, solely by her elder cousin's sheer stubbornness and determination to be relevant. To say nothing of Clopin's own offspring, who had been left without mothers themselves at very young ages. The Court's ironic king-jester was all they had left.
These truths didn't stop Rom Baro from secretly hoping Clopin would get dragged off by the zealous judge just so he wouldn't have to deal with the younger man anymore. But they did add a modicum of guilt to such thoughts. Clopin wasn't a bad sort, after all. He'd proven true to his word to build and protect the Court, and he guarded them with the same zeal with which Frollo hunted them.
So the first time Clopin had to cash in his title, it didn't come as a surprise to Rom Baro. But it did impress him so much that he decided to do something insane: He gave Clopin a major promotion.
Clopin had returned from working in town when he saw some of Frollo's guards sniffing around the graveyard that served as the entrance to the Court of Miracles. He knew he had to distract them, and he dove right into doing so. He darted back and forth, in and out of the headstones and trees, calling out to the guards in mocking, sing-song tones. For a long time, the guards were never able to see more than a glimpse of the slippery man, and soon they lost all trace of their purses, belts and small weapons. And then the horses "mysteriously" spooked and ran off.
That ticked the guards off, and while some of them got dumber, one got smart. And Clopin got caught.
But he'd prepared a contingency plan.
"What are you doing in this old graveyard, Gypsy?" one of the oafish guards demanded, snorting in Clopin's face as he spoke.
Clopin gagged at the man's breath, but collected himself. "Why...I was simply visiting my old friends who were left here by the dear old undertaker. I wasn't hiding my loot or anything. I swear!"
The guard took the bait. "He's got stolen goods hidden around here! Find them!"
After that it was a game of reverse psychology. "I'll never tell you where they are! But they're certainly not anywhere near the big cross. Oh, darn it, I meant to say they're not to the left of it!"
The guards unearthed the cache Clopin had buried. He kept a pained grin on his face as they proceeded to confiscate his entire day's earnings, including the food he'd brought back for the kids' supper. Today, at least, not one bit of his loot had been stolen, and he'd worked hard to earn it.
"This is going straight to Judge Frollo," the oafish guard needlessly announced as he shook the bag in front of Clopin's face. He then ordered the guards to haul Clopin away.
The first time Clopin was brought before Frollo, he had a hard time understanding why anyone should be intimidated by the grumpy, gloomy old man who looked like he'd aged 20 years in the ten he'd been in his position of power. And then Frollo opened his mouth, and Clopin couldn't help but shudder at the baritone voice that clearly meant business. He idly wondered if the judge did any singing in his spare time. Surely he had a decent set of pipes.
"You have one minute to save your life, Gypsy. Now, tell me, where is your so-called Court of Miracles, and who leads it?"
Straight to the point, then. Clopin rolled his eyes. But in the back of his mind, he was concerned that this gadjo even knew what the Court of Miracles was. Who had talked? Clopin was going to fillet them alive later.
"Never heard of it," was his reply.
"Don't play coy with me," Frollo growled. "Our intelligence has revealed an underground nest of your kind, and I want to know where it is. I can assure you, if you cooperate, you will at worst spend your life in prison. But if you're uncooperative, it'll be the noose at dawn."
"That long, eh? Not afraid I'll escape in that time?"
Frollo leaned back and smiled. "Not in the least. You'll be in too much pain from the interrogation in our specialized chambers."
Clopin was successful at suppressing a shudder, though it took considerable effort.
"Now, where is this Court of yours?"
"As if I would ever tell you."
"And why not? What could possibly inspire such loyalty to what is surely a terrible place to exist in squalor?"
"It's my job to protect them," Clopin said simply, looking straight at the judge with a matter-of-fact expression.
"Your job? You're one of the guards?"
"No." Clopin bit his lip. This was his reckoning. "They call me King of Gypsies. It's an elected position, but it bears great responsibility, as I'm sure you can imagine." Frollo's interest was piqued, so Clopin continued. "We prefer not to deal directly withthe likes of you, but if left with no choice, I'm the one who represents them. I also run the supply chains, which will be harder now that your goons have discovered my most recent cache location." He said the last bit under his breath, then winced and looked up sheepishly at Frollo. It was more bait, and Clopin waited to see if Frollo would be hooked.
He was. The judge smirked. "I've heard you in the square, and I must say, you don't seem to know how to speak quietly." He waved the guard out. "Take this...King of Gypsies to the dungeon and prepare the gallows for the morning. We'll continue this interrogation into the night, and in the morning, the Gypsies will find themselves short one 'royal' leader. Scour the grounds of the graveyard for anything he may have left behind, then move on. We will find that hideout eventually."
A night of beatings and whippings later, Clopin was roughly hauled out to the gallows. He was proud of himself. After all that, he hadn't given up anything of value. At most, his tale of how he became the Gypsy King got more elaborate with each retelling, and had evolved into an epic fantasy that Clopin would've written down if he'd had a prayer of writing legibly even in the best of times (not that he couldn't write; he just wasn't very good at it). It would've made the best puppet show ever.
And yet he couldn't stop the cold sweat that came over him when he saw the executioner loop the rope over the gallows and tie the noose. The man did it in a very showy manner, too, as if to drive home the point that today, Clopin Trouillefou would die.
A priest was there to offer last rites, but Clopin pointedly ignored him. He had no use for priests. Their religion and stories weren't for him. They were for Europe, not for those whose origins traced back beyond the highest mountains in the world. He may not have known what lay beyond this life, be it heaven, hell, reincarnation or oblivion, but he certainly hoped it wasn't boring. Moreso, he hoped someone would step up and take care of Esmeralda and his other little ones. After all, the Court owed him. He was effectively taking the punishment for his people's many transgressions. Like breathing and eating and generally existing. Not that he was bitter or anything.
The noose was placed around his neck, snapping him out of his thoughts. The trap door was opened, replacing all his thoughts with panic.
And suddenly Clopin landed in a pained heap on the ground below, which replaced his panic with bewilderment, irritation and utter relief.
It took him less than a moment to process the fact that he wasn't dead. He looked up to see a hatchet embedded in the gallows beam. Had to be the work of Pavel, one of the newer members of the Court. He was prized for his unequaled aim with most any small weapon.
Clopin had no time to dwell on this as he made a mad dash in the direction the hatchet had clearly flown from. Years of parkour really came in handy, especially with his hands still bound behind him. The hooded figures in the crowd were unmistakably Roma. His brethren embraced him quickly and cut his bonds.
"Let's get you home, your majesty," Pavel teased, his eastern accent thick but not unintelligible.
As they ran, Clopin spun briefly and shouted, "By the way, judge...I lied! About everything! And you owe me one day's wages, earned fair and square!" He gave a cackle before flipping back around and breaking into a full on sprint.
The sounds of Frollo raging at the world in general were sweet music to Clopin's ears as they faded into the distance. Yes, that man did have quite a nice set of pipes on him indeed.
Everyone in the Court wanted to hear Clopin's story, and he was glad to oblige. So long as they let him have his wounds tended to in the meantime. He'd come to be rather proud of the stripes he now bore. His kids swarmed and glomped him, forcing him to clench his teeth against the pain as they accidentally aggravated his injuries. Esme in particular fussed over him and announced that at ten years old, she was more than mature enough to oversee his wound care.
She wasn't wrong, actually.
Clopin was fed a hot meal and praised, with some of the older women fussing over him almost as much as Esme was.
As Clopin was regaling everyone around mouthfuls of bread and soup, the crowd parted for their tribal leader. Rom Baro required a cane now, but still carried himself with the dignity owed his position. He stopped before Clopin.
"Well done," he said, a genuine smile shining behind his silver whiskers. "The lengths to which you continuously go to prove yourself are nothing short of incredible. And your success has given you a terrible ego."
The crowd chuckled while Clopin blushed a bit, then shrugged. "It's well earned," he said.
"True. Just don't let it trip you up. Because it could very well cost the Court greatly to lose you again."
"What do you mean? I'm just a lowly puppeteer. I'm very nearly expendable."
"Ah, some humility at last," Rom Baro said with a teasing smile. He addressed the crowd. "I'm going to do something highly unconventional. Today, I am choosing my successor, who will be my apprentice. And when I am no longer fit to lead, he will take over as your new Rom baro. When I am gone, you will rely on the guidance of Clopin Trouillefou."
Clopin's jaw dropped, and the roll he'd been munching on suddenly became a much-welcomed offering for the first dog that saw it land on the floor.
The audience was equally shocked. Suddenly applause and cheering went up. The Roma praised their leader as crazy, but wise. Clopin was, apparently, simultaneously the worst and best choice to succeed Rom Baro. Though some of the elders did grumble, as convention would've seen one of them come to the position next.
Clopin sat dumbfounded for a good minute. In a split second, he'd gone from mid-tier to top of the pack. He boasted about deserving more than he was getting all the time, but even he never saw himself in such a lofty position at his age.
Rom Baro winked at him. "I suppose now you'll have to choose a new Gypsy King," he said.
Clopin hummed for a moment. "Actually...I think we need a few more safeguards. I'll stay Gypsy King for now, at least until we can set up a chain of command that won't leave us without a leader if someone in authority gets caught."
Rom Baro's eyebrows went up. Clopin never failed to surprise him. There were times he seemed every bit the fool his stage name said he was. And then there were others he seemed to be wise beyond his years, and intelligent beyond his education. "Excellent idea," Rom Baro said. "Well, finish your meal and get some rest. Your apprenticeship starts in the morning."
AN: Rom Baro is more of a title than a name, but I'm using it as both here. It is a traditional title for the head of a Romani tribe or community. wiki/Rom_baro