NOT THE NEXT DAY, NOT THE DAY AFTER THAT PERHAPS it had taken me close to two hundred years, but I had learned a little patience after all. I waited until I had some strength again.
Then I sent for them. And then they came.
I was in the audience-room of the palace that the Gaje had so kindly provided, all those hundreds of years ago, for the use of the Rom baro when he is in residence at the Capital. But I think they had never expected to see that audience-room put to such a use as it was put this day. No, not in a million years would they have anticipated a day such as this.
It was a very formal occasion. I dressed in my finest finery and mounted my throne and sat among the ceremonial objects of my power: my silken scroll of office; my silver scepter that bore the five holy symbols of axe, sun, moon, star, cross; my statuette of the Black Virgin Sara; my wonderwheel; my shadowstick. A grand and primitive display. Here sits the Gypsy king in all his majesty, yes. All hail!
"Send them in," I said.
A demon-figure at the door, bizarrely masked. Red straw beard, bulging green eyes, white horns. Cloak of brilliant stripes, a dozen colors. He pauses, makes a gesture of respect, bows stiffly from the hips. Takes up a position to my left, near the window.
Another. A woman, supple, sinuous. Golden mask, slits for eyes.
Firm chin visible below, painted with interwoven blue lines. A gown that glistens like cold fire. The same gesture. Stands beside the first.
What is this masquerade? Who are these demons and witches?
A third. Savage spikes at his collar; giant black antlers rising high above a domed head. Bows. Moves to his place. The room is very silent. Polarca's eyes are bright as beacons. Damiano stares, lips clamped tight. Valerian ghosts nervously in and out of the scene; I see the energies flickering around him.
The fourth peer of the Imperium. Crocodile-head, stubby furry beast-legs. Pitchfork in his hand.
The fifth. Bat-wings, fangs, a torch smouldering in his black long-clawed hand.
Monsters and demons. These are the peers of the Imperium?
A fish-woman, scales and breasts. A goat-man, snorting and preening. One with a great bird-beak, and brilliant plumage that glows with a light of its own.
Lion-head. Frog-head.
Nine nightmare monsters arrayed in a semicircle before me. How still they are! What now? Will they leap upon me, will they devour me alive as I sit on my throne?
A signal. Antler-head comes forward. Kneels. Touches my foot. "Majesty," he says. What? What? The voice, rumbling from the depths of the heavy mask, is deep, hoarse, rough.
"Majesty," says lion-head, coming forward.
"Majesty," says fish-woman.
One by one. It is a dream. It is some fantastical moment out of space and time. The universe has ended; spirits float freely about.
"Majesty."
"Majesty."
"Majesty."
Now they are reaching into their costumes and pulling forth small objects which they place before me: a sphere, a rod, a string of interlocking golden balls. Not a masquerade, then, but a game? What am I supposed to do, solve the puzzle of these toys? Should I be wearing a mask of my own?
Why are they calling me Majesty? That is no title of mine. The Rom baro is beyond such pomp. My people call me Yakoub. These lords could well do the same.
Crocodile-head draws from the depths of his garb something that looks like a short sword in its scabbard. Polarca tenses and prepares to leap forward. I wave him back with the smallest motion of a finger. Crocodile-head places the scabbard before me: fine purple velvet, rich, lustrous. Places a furry hand on the head of the weapon within and begins slowly to pull it forth.
It is no weapon.
I know what it is. I have seen it before, many times, in my visits to the Capital. It is the wand of office that the emperor holds when he occupies the throne-platform atop the crystalline stairs.
What is this? What is this?
"Will you pick it up, Majesty?" asks crocodile-head.
"That wand is nothing of mine."
"It will be yours the moment it touches your hand," he says.
I had thought that after seeing Romany Star I would be beyond all awe; but now I am awed to my roots. What are these crazy Gaje doing, all bedecked in these nightmare costumes and crawling about down by my feet? What strange rite is this, that no Rom has ever seen or even heard about before, this procession of phantasms, this presentation of the wand?
Are they making me emperor? Me?
"You have all gone mad," I say.
"Majesty-" says crocodile-head.
"Majesty-" from antler-head.
"We beg you, Majesty-" It is frog-head, groveling.
"Up, all of you!" I stare in amazement. "On your feet! Take off those hideous masks!"
"Majesty-"
"Off with them! Unmask! Unmask at once!" I snatch up their Gaje wand of office and wave it around. "No nightmares in here! Get rid of those masks!"
They turn to one another, making bewildered little gestures with their claws and paws and flippers. Consternation. Uncertainty. Then lion-head lifts his mask, and the face of a man of Vietoris, unknown to me, looks out. Frog-head reveals a Copperfield face, ruddy, wind-burned. Antler-head has the fair skin and golden hair of a man of Ragnarok. Nine worlds of the Imperium have yielded these nine peers. Without their masks they look absurd in their costumes, caught in mid-mummery, childish, foolish, embarrassed.
"What is this?" I ask, brandishing the wand. "Why have you come here in these outfits? What are you trying to do?"
"The tradition," one whispers. "It is only a little pageantry, Majesty. To lend a heightening touch to the old secret rite-"
"What rite?"
"The naming of the emperor, Majesty."
Yes, I was right. Madness.
"Have you all lost your minds? I am Rom! What are you doing, coming to a Rom like this?"
"The throne is empty. The three high lords are dead. The ships remain in the starports. The worlds are helpless," says the Ragnarok man.
"The time has come for the uniting of the peoples," says Copperfield. "You are the one. There is no one else. This was the will of the Fifteenth, sealed in the moment of his death, revealed to us now in the time of the destruction of the Capital. He chose you. This terrible war has been the consequence of ignoring that choice. Spare us further grief. Surely you will not refuse the will of the Fifteenth?"
The will of the Fifteenth-
"Majesty!" they cry again. I look across the room. Polarca is laughing or crying, I am not sure which. Damiano is down on his knees, shivering and praying. Chorian looks as though he has been struck from behind by a falling star. Only Julien de Gramont is totally calm: he looks transfigured, ecstatic, as though France itself is being reborn before his eyes.
"Majesty! Majesty!"
I look at the wand in my hand. The will of the Fifteenth? Jesu Cretchuno Sunto Mario! Emperor Yakoub? The same man, king and emperor? What do they think I am, Gaje as well as Rom?
By damn, why not?
The first Rom emperor. And the last. Take the throne, proclaim the harmony of the peoples, rebuild the web that links the worlds. Send forth the starships again. And then, then, the rebirth of Romany Star under my auspices. The return, the resettlement. For this must be the call that we have all awaited: when the Gaje turn to a Rom and say, Bring us together. So will we come together at last. And then we will go home.
"Will you accept?" the Gaje lordlings ask, astounded themselves by what is happening. "Do you yield to the will of the Fifteenth? The throne of the Imperium is waiting for you, Majesty. Say the word, and we will proclaim it: the Sixteenth has been chosen at last!"
"No," I say, and there is a terrible stunned silence.
"No?" they mutter. "No?"
A smile. "No, not the Sixteenth. That's an unlucky number, I think. Let them have been the Sixteenth, all three of them. The Sixteenth and the Seventeenth and the Eighteenth. We accept your homage, and we proclaim ourselves to rule f
rom this moment forward as the Nineteenth of our line, and so be it."
"Long live the Nineteenth Emperor!" cry the peers of the Imperium.
"Long live the Nineteenth!" From Chorian, resonantly, joyously.
"Long live the Nineteenth!" From Julien, from Polarca, from Valerian. And then from all of them.
"We are greatly pleased," I say, benevolently waving the wand of office from one side of the room to another.
The royal we. How wonderfully silly that sounds.
I love it.
14.
BY THE TIME I HAD BEEN ROBED AND ANOINTED AND driven across the smouldering rubble-fields of the Capital to the imperial palace, which still stood intact despite all the carnage that had taken place in and around it, night was falling. On the horizon the sky-banner of a new emperor was aglow in every direction.
Once more I climbed the crystalline steps, huffing, I must confess, and puffing, all the way. No emperor waited at the top to hand me my cup of sweet wine. No loudspeakers boomed out my name as I ascended.
The peers of the Imperium clustered below me as the Nineteenth Emperor held the first procedural session of his reign.
I appointed Polarca and Julien de Gramont as my first two high lords. Polarca, of course. And Julien because a majority of the high lords would have to be Gaje, and he was my Gajo. The other one I would choose from that gaggle of masked monstrosities, as soon as I had had time to learn something about them.
When I was done with that, I issued some decrees having to do with the reconstruction of the Capital-we would do it in a somewhat less gaudy and grandiose way, but there was no need to say anything explicit about that just yet-and the reorganization of the imperial guard in the wake of the civil war. Then, in my capacity as Rom baro, I told Polarca to send word to the Rom star-pilots in every corner of the galaxy that the starships must start going forth again at once. How else would the joyful peoples of the Imperium be able to send their delegates to the Capital to celebrate the coronation of the glorious Nineteenth?
"All right," I said finally. "Enough of this. Help me down these goddamned stairs, you two."
Polarca blinked. "Did I hear you ask for help?"
"Crystalline steps are very goddamned slippery, Polarca. Do you want the Nineteenth to fall and break his ass right in front of the worshipful peers? Here. Take my arm. And you, Julien, you walk in front of me. If the Nineteenth does slip, at least his fall will be broken by the King of France."
Of course I wasn't all that worried about slipping. But I thought it would reassure them, knowing that I was at least beginning to take a few sensible precautions in deference to my age. You have to humor people, sometimes, or they'll drive you crazy with oversolicitousness.
"Who'd have imagined it?" Polarca murmured, for something like the ten thousandth time that day. "The Nineteenth Emperor descends the throne-platform, and who is he? Who is he? Do you believe you are emperor, Yakoub? Would you have thought such a thing was possible, that the Gaje would come to the Rom baro, that they would lie down in front of him in their masks and robes, that they would hold out the wand to him, that they would say-"
"I knew it all along," I told him grandly. "I saw it in the lines of my palm."
"And me a high lord of the Imperium!" Polarca cried.
"And you knew that all along, too, didn't you? Didn't you, you Polarca?"
Chorian was waiting below. He had that boy with him, the one who had been in my bedroom when I awakened. I wondered who he was. Some young brother of Chorian's, perhaps? No, there wasn't any resemblance. This boy had nothing like Chorian's long legs and slim, rangy build. He was short, deep-chested, fair-skinned; he didn't quite look Rom at all.
"Majesty?" Chorian called.
"To you I am Yakoub," I said.
"But… but…"
"Yakoub."
He nodded. "I have someone here I'd like you to meet."
I looked at the boy. "A friend of yours? A relative?"
"His name is also Yakoub."
"Not an uncommon name."
"He is the son of your son Shandor," Chorian said.
"What?"
"Majesty!" the boy said, and I thought he would cry. I thought I would, also. He dropped down before me and began kissing the hem of my garment in a disgusting way. I had to pluck at his hair to pull him up and away.
"Don't," I said. "Let me look at you, boy."
Not much Rom in him, no. Except in the eyes. Shandor's eyes, bright and fierce. My eyes. I felt a little shiver go running down my back.
I drew him close to me and held him, and kissed him in the Rom way.
Chorian said, "He was found on Galgala, in Shandor's camp. They shipped him here just before the starships stopped running, but there was no time to bring him before you until now."
"Yakoub," I said, trying out the name. It is not all that common, that name. It has an ancient heritage, yes. But there are very few of us today. He was smiling and crying at once. Named for me. What, I wondered, did that tell me about Shandor? A handsome boy in his way. Fifteen years old, maybe? Maybe younger. Shandor's son by that Gaje woman of his. A poshrat, a half-breed. Well, no matter. I was starting to feel half Gajo myself, now that I was their emperor. It was time to put aside some of the old prejudices. This boy united both the races in himself. Good. With my own name stuck to him. Good. I wondered how much Shandor there was in him. Shandor's energy and cunning, maybe, but none of Shandor's vileness, eh? One could hope. I smiled. "Come with me, Yakoub. And you, you Polarca. Julien. Chorian. I need some fresh air."
Out under the stars. That burning smell was starting to fade, now: it was days since the fighting had ended, and most of the fires were out. The sky was ablaze with light.
I looked up, searching for Romany Star.
"Can you see it?" I asked. "It should be there, somewhere off to the north, eh?" I narrowed my eyes, squinting, peering. Frowning. As I looked I said very quietly, "I went there, you know. While I was off ghosting. I went all the way back, and shook hands with the king. The last king of Romany Star, and what a great man he was!" They were all staring at me. "You don't believe me? Well, no matter. No matter. I was there. I said I wouldn't let myself die until I had been to Romany Star, and I have kept my vow." Odd that I couldn't find it up there, though, after having seen it almost every night of my life. That great red blazing thing. Where was it? More trouble with my eyes, maybe? "Do you see it?" I said. "Polarca? Chorian?"
They didn't seem to see it either. We stood there in the darkness, peering, frowning, squinting. I could hear the song of Mulesko Chiriklo, rich and strange in the night.
"I was there on the last day," I told them. "As the swelling of the sun began. And I said to the king that we would be back, that I would lead the return. That much I promised him. As I have promised myself all my life. As I promised you."
Polarca said, "Could we be looking in the wrong place, Yakoub?"
"It's usually… right… there," I said. "Ah, holy saints and demons!"
"What do you see?" Chorian asked.
"There," I said. "I see it now. Not red any more. There it is, that bright star there. The blue one, do you see? That's Romany Star. Changing. Swelling. The third swelling of the sun has started, do you see?"
"I don't see the one you mean," said Chorian.
"There. There." I pointed, and he stared, and Polarca stared. And my grandson stared. They didn't seem to see. I tried to guide them, describing the pattern of the constellations all around. It was unmistakable now. The great blue star shining where the red one had been. The third swelling was under way at last; and after that it would be safe for us to go back. Then I would send my people in ships, hundreds of ships, thousands of ships. How long would that be, before it was safe? Ten years? A hundred? Well, I would find out. I would ask the imperial astronomers tomorrow.
What if they said five hundred years? Well, no matter. No matter. Someone else would lead the return, I suppose. Chorian? I would like that, if it were Chorian. Or th
is young Yakoub, maybe. Or maybe his grandson. That would be all right. I had kept my vow. I had lived long enough to see Romany Star with my own eyes. And to set us upon the path that would take us home.
And now? There is work to do, for the king, for the emperor. Great tasks await, and I will do them, for I am the man for the tasks. I knew that all along. And now you know that too, for I have told you my story, which now is finished, though my work is not. What is still to come, we will see. This is my story, and I have told it. Chapite! A Romany word, which storytellers use, when they have come to the end of their tale. Chapite! It is true! It is all true!
eBook history
v2.0, ePUB: OCR, formatting and proofing by p0llar.
Robert Silverberg, Star of Gypsies
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends