"But He was pierced for our transgressions,
He was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on Him,
and by His wounds we are healed."
-Isaiah 53:5
Another ten years passed. Rom Baro slipped away quietly in his sleep one night, and Clopin was in charge of the funeral. It was as opulent as a beloved leader deserved, yet Frollo was none the wiser. Clopin had carefully maneuvered everything so that the funeral remained a secret, even though it was above ground. Rom Baro was buried in a carefully hidden graveyard used just by the Court of Miracles, and his worldly possessions were returned to him on a pyre that should've attracted the attention of Frollo's men, were it not for a larger controlled burn that was conveniently happening elsewhere outside the city. After all, the Roma may not have been native to the land, but surely they should still be good stewards of it. They couldn't let all that underbrush become so hazardous it threatened the ecosystem. Even if it was winter, and it was purely a coincidence that the burn was happening on the day of a very important funeral, and they lacked the appropriate permits, meaning the guards had to deal with such an infraction immediately and couldn't be bothered to deal with an old Gypsy who had already assumed room temperature. All just serendipitous happenstance, Clopin swore.
His official title now was Rom baro—the big man. He was easily the youngest Rom baro he had ever personally known, and a few of the elders weren't shy about saying he was the youngest such leader they'd ever known too. And by now, Clopin wore many hats. Father (both adoptive and biological), leader, jester, puppeteer, king of truands (that one was a gift from various criminal gangs and black marketeers that the Roma dealt with), master of ceremonies for the Festival of Fools...and King of Gypsies. He had kept the role and organized a robust hierarchy that had a whole line of potential successors, all of whom also acted as Clopin's advisors and enforcers, ready to take command in the event he himself were ever captured or killed. They were fiercely loyal to him. Third in line for Clopin's position was the hatchet marksman Pavel, who had become one of Clopin's dearest friends. But it would remain primarily Clopin's job to sacrifice himself for the tribe. Others had plenty of opportunities, and despite Clopin forbidding it, there were still a handful of "Gypsy kings" who went to prison and even to their deaths swearing they were the leaders of the Court of Miracles. It was a testament to how effective and beloved Clopin had become as a leader. A boy of lowly birth, who had started out as nothing more than a scapegoat with an overbearing sense of humor that utterly replaced any sense of personal space he might otherwise have had, had grown into a fierce protector whose title of king was becoming less and less tongue-in-cheek by the day.
And then Clopin's greatest failure happened.
After years of being exceedingly careful about guarding his hideout, Clopin had taken all the guards off the entrance in one moment of lapsed judgment, all because they'd caught an especially lucrative prize. It should've occurred to him just as readily as it should have occurred to the ex-captain of the guard that Frollo would be using his hunchbacked bell ringer as bait to lead him to the Court of Miracles he'd sought so long. That one mistake had cost the Gypsy King his home, his life's work and his dignity.
And this time, Frollo made sure no doubts remained as to Clopin's authority in his tribe before he was sent to the torture chamber. The Rom was reduced to begging Frollo to punish him alone, and his pleas fell on deaf ears. Esmeralda's execution by burning at the stake was to move forward as planned, followed by the hanging of every adult Romani. The children would grow up in prison and be hanged at sixteen. The infants would be raised in orphanages and taught to hate their heritage, then they would be sent out to ferret out all the rest of the Roma in France. Frollo was not hesitant to lay out his plan to completely eradicate the Parisian Roma, and Clopin couldn't tell if it was the plot for genocide or the fresh lashes on his back that made him more nauseous. But he was breaking, and Frollo was giddy about it.
It was only when Frollo decided to turn in for the night that Clopin was finally returned to his cell. The Gypsy King lay on his stomach in utter despair. He was supposed to be the scapegoat. He was supposed to take everyone's torture and everyone's wounds. He was supposed to sacrifice himself for them. But he'd failed. He had acted like some sort of demigod of mischief for so long that even he had seemed to forget he was merely human. His ego had cost him everything. His ego had condemned his people to death.
So Clopin couldn't tell if it was more fitting or more ironic that his people's salvation came out of the church. In the form of a half-Romani young man with severe kyphosis and facial deformities, true, but he still literally came out of the church to save Esmeralda and kick off the battle for Notre Dame.
Clopin's mood began to pick up at that point, and he'd even been able to hum a little reprise of his "Topsy-Turvy" song while getting acquainted with his new favorite weapon of all time, the scythe.
The battle won and Frollo now dead, the Roma suddenly found themselves free to mingle with the crowds of French Parisians. Tensions arose, but Phoebus returned to his role as captain of the guard to establish a sort of peace between the two factions. The Roma couldn't return to the Court of Miracles. But Phoebus and the Archdeacon both worked with Clopin to establish a quarter within the city for the Roma to settle. It was run down and unwanted, and it was the only place the French Parisians could be persuaded to let the Roma live. But Clopin had chosen a worse fixer upper and made it thrive. He could make this one work too. Especially since he had Esmeralda to help. She was turning into quite the capable leader herself, and would likely make a great addition to his chain of command within mere years.
There also wasn't too much need for a King of Gypsies anymore. The title became an artifact more than anything. Especially since any Romani of any status was ready to take on the role of the scapegoat for their tribe. Clopin sometimes threw his title around to remind someone that it was his job alone to make sure that any government wrath toward the Roma fell squarely on him. But part of him was relieved it wasn't his job in practice to bear that burden alone anymore. He just couldn't do it. He was just a man.
How any one man could ever play that role alone was beyond him. There was a time it wasn't unimaginable, but that time was long past.
As the years passed, the Roma settled into a fairly easy rhythm. Clopin's oldest, a son who had been saddled at a young age with the nickname Chat due to his tendency to find himself in many a predicament while feigning ignorance as to how he got there, had decided prior to Frollo's demise that he wanted to become a lawyer, and eventually a judge. Clopin found it laughable, and at one time had even considered it grounds for ejection from the Court if Chat didn't come to his senses. But if Chat was anything like him (and Clopin was seeing more and more as the boy grew that he was in many ways very much like him), he had the sheer audacity to achieve what he wanted despite the odds stacked against him. And so Clopin allowed Chat's studies. He could potentially be a boon to the Roma just by being well versed in French law. And Chat had always taken much more naturally to both reading and language than Clopin ever had.
That led first to Chat spending an inordinate amount of time in church and school (the Archdeacon happily tutored the boy in Latin), which then led to Chat carrying stacks of books practically everywhere he went. And where Clopin lacked a sense of personal space or an indoor voice that wasn't intended for drama, Chat lacked the ability to keep literally any new factoid he found to himself. So Clopin found himself very begrudgingly learning Latin and law despite his best efforts.
"Hey, Papa, listen to this bit about the scapegoat. It says here that the Israelite priest was to put the sins of the people on a goat meant to bear their sins away from camp. It was part of a sacrifice ritual. And this commentary here says it was a messianic prophecy."
Clopin tried to resist. He really did. But his mouth voiced that teeny tiny inkling of curiosity purely against his orders. "A what prophecy?"
"A prophecy about the coming Messiah. Which is the Hebrew title for Christ. Like, it's literally a translation. Christ is Greek, Messiah is Hebrew. So the scapegoat prophesied Christ."
Welp, he was hooked. He wanted to know more about this scapegoat. He had idly wondered where the term came from before, and this was his chance to find out. Clopin walked over to peer over Chat's shoulder. The texts were all in Latin and Greek and other languages Clopin didn't recognize, so he was not at all sure what he was supposed to gain from this.
Chat smiled that satisfied type of smile one associates with a cat that has finally caught an elusive mouse. Yeah, there was good reason for his nickname, even now. "See, Christ is the King of the Jews, but He was born in a lowly stable and raised as a carpenter's boy. And then He became a teacher in His community and led no fewer than twelve men, spreading His message wherever He went and accomplishing great things. But He stayed humble through it all. And then He was taken and beaten and flogged, and then killed on a cross by the Sanhedrin and the Roman government, to atone for our sins and take them away. He was King, but He became the scapegoat for His people, and for all the rest of the world.
"I know you don't think too much of it, Papa, but I thought it was interesting. This whole bit about being a scapegoat and being called a king, and even the lowly birth...well, it reminded me of you. Christ did...a lot of what you did to try and save our people. Except He saved the whole world. And, well, as we all know with Easter coming up and everything, He didn't stay dead, but rose as a way to seal the deal. But...I just figured maybe you could relate to Him at least a bit."
His impromptu sermon finished, Chat sat back in satisfaction and watched his father mentally ruminate over all of the new information.
It worked. Things clicked into place in Clopin's brain. Suddenly he got it. The stories the church drilled into children from the cradle weren't just for the people of Europe after all. They were actually for his people too. He stared at the mess of textbooks wordlessly for some time. And then he left just as silently.
Hours later, Esmeralda found him in the last place one would expect to find Clopin Trouillefou if he had literally any other option left: The sanctuary of Notre Dame Cathedral. Either Quasimodo or the Archdeacon had snitched on his location, and Clopin didn't really care which it was (though it was probably Quasimodo, since he'd sent for Esme). The Rom was staring quietly at the large crucifix above the altar. As the world entered the Easter season, the altar was decorated with flowers, and the crucifix had a purple sash draped over it.
Esme sat quietly next to her cousin-slash-foster father and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. After a few moments, she said, "When Frollo trapped me in here, the Archdeacon naturally suggested I pray about my situation. So I took his advice. It did help. I thought that maybe, since they say God became human, that maybe He could understand what it was like to be an outcast. And then Chat told me some time later that God didn't just become any human, but a Jew specifically. Which meant He must've absolutely been an outcast once. Since the Jews are in a pretty similar situation to us. I don't know what Frollo believed, but I don't think he actually believed in any of...this." She waved a hand in the direction of the altar. "He was probably God in his own mind. But...I like to believe that maybe Jesus Christ, whatever His title or role might've been, would've been on our side in our fight against Frollo. In fact, I'm pretty well convinced He was."
"What makes you so sure of that?" Clopin asked, very softly for once.
Esme sighed as she recounted the tale. "When Frollo was trying to kill us upstairs, he was perched on one of those gargoyle spouts. And he had a sword, and...he raised it up...and then he said, all dramatically, 'And He shall smite the wicked and plunge them into the fiery pit!'" She deepened her voice in an attempt to imitate Frollo. Clopin couldn't help but chuckle.
"And then the gargoyle cracked," Esme continued. "And Frollo plunged into the fire down below. Well, the molten...whatever it was that Quasi dumped all over. But it was like God Himself said, 'As you wish.' It was perfect, honestly."
Clopin smiled. He returned Esme's embrace. "I'm told He knows what it's like to be a scapegoat king. That apparently He was the original scapegoat King. So...I'm forced to admit that maybe He's more on our side than I ever would've thought. But at any rate, it is nice to be understood by the divine."
"It sure is," Esme agreed. "Especially for a couple of lowly Gypsies."
"I sincerely hope He doesn't call us Gypsies."
"I don't think He does. I think...He doesn't call us by some group label at all. I think He calls us individually, by name."
"...That's a nice thought. I like that thought. I might just hold onto that thought."
And Clopin did. The scapegoat king held onto that thought for the rest of his life.
AN: The name Chat is pronounced similar to Shaw.