“The answer is: no people. No people: but an Empire. An Empire which could, and once did, comprise any people or peoples regardless, and had a life, a crown, borders and capitals of the greatest mutability. You will remember Voltaire’s dig: that it was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire. Yet in some sense it existed until (as we have thought) its last Emperor, Francis II, resigned the title in 1806. Welclass="underline" my contention is, gentlemen, that the Holy Roman Empire did not pass away then either. It continued to exist. It continued, like an amoeba, to shift, crawl, expand, contract; and that while Russell Eigenblick slept his long sleep (exactly eight hundred years by my reckoning)—while, in effect, we all slept—it has crept and slid, shifting and drifting like the continents, until it is now located here, where we sit. How exactly its borders should be drawn I have no idea, though I suspect they may be identical with this country’s. In any case we are well within it. This city may even be its Capitaclass="underline" though probably only its Chief City.”
She had ceased looking at them.
“And Russell Eigenblick?” she asked of no one. “He was once its Emperor. Not its first, who was of course Charlemagne (about whom the same sleep-wake story was for a while told) nor its last, nor even its greatest. Vigorous, yes; talented; uneven in temperament; no administrator; steady, but generally unsuccessful, in war. It was he who, by the way, added the ‘holy’ to his Empire’s name. About 1190 he chose, with the Empire generally at peace and the Pope for the moment off his back, to go on crusade. The Infidel only briefly felt his scourge; he won a battle or two, and then, crossing a stream in Armenia, he fell from his horse, and was too weighted down by his armor to get out. He drowned. So says Gregorovius, among other authorities.
“The Germans, though, after many later reverses, came to disbelieve this. He hadn’t died. He was only asleep, perhaps beneath the Kyffhauser in the Hartz Mountains (the place is still pointed out to tourists) or perhaps in Domdaniel in the sea, or wherever, but he would return, one day; return to the aid of his beloved Germans, and lead German arms to victory and a German empire to glory. The hideous history of Germany in the last century may be the working-out of this vain dream. But in fact that Emperor, despite his birth and his name, was no German. He was Emperor of all the world, or at least all Christendom. He was heir to French Charlemagne and Roman Caesar. And now he has shifted like his ancient borders, and has changed no allegiances in doing so, only his name. Gentlemen, Russell Eigenblick is the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, yes, die alte Barbarossa, reawakened to rule over this strange latter age of his Empire.”
This last sentence she had spoken, her voice rising, against a growing swell of murmurs, protests, and standings-up among her hearers.
“Absurd!” said one.
“Preposterous!” said another, like a spit.
“Do you mean to say, Hawksquill,” said a third, more reasonably, “that Russell Eigenblick supposes himself to be this resurrected Emperor, and that…”
“I have no idea who he supposes himself to be,” Hawksquill said. “I’m only telling you who he in fact is.”
“Then answer me this,” said the member, raising his hand to silence the hubbub Hawksquill’s insistence raised. “Why is it just now that he returns? I mean didn’t you say that these heroes return at the time of their people’s greatest need, and so on?”
“Traditionally they are said to, yes.”
“Then why now? If this futile Empire has lain doggo for so long…”
Hawksquill looked down. “I said it would be hard for me to make a recommendation. I’m afraid that there are essential pieces of this puzzle still withheld from me.”
“Such as.”
“For one,” she said, “the cards he speaks of. I can’t now go into my reasons, but I must see them, and manipulate them…” There was an impatient uncrossing and recrossing of legs. Someone asked why. “I supposed,” she said, “you would need to know his strength. His chances. What times he considers propitious. The point is, gentlemen, that if you intend to suppress him, you had better know whether Time is on your side, or on his; and whether you are not futilely ranging yourselves against the inevitable.”
“And you can’t tell us.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. Yet.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said the senior member present, rising. “I’m afraid, Hawksquill, that, your investigations in this case being so prolonged, we’ve had to come to a decision ourselves. We came tonight chiefly to discharge you of any further obligation.”
“Hm,” said Hawksquill.
The senior member chuckled indulgently. “And it doesn’t really seem to me,” he said, “that your present revelations do much to alter the case. As I remember my history, the Holy Roman Empire had not a lot to do with the life of the peoples who supposedly comprised it. Am I right? The real rulers liked having the Imperial power in their hands or under their control, but in any case did what they liked.”
“That was often so.”
“Well then. The course we decided on was the right one. If Russell Eigenblick turns out to be in some sense this Emperor, or convinces enough people of it (I notice, by the way, he continually puts off announcing just who he is, big mystery), then he might be more useful than the reverse.”
“May I ask,” Hawksquill said, motioning forward the Maid of Stone who stood mumchance in the doorway with a tray of glasses and a tall decanter, “what course of action you decided on?”
The Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club settled back in their seats, smiling. “Co-optation,” said a member—one of those who had most vigorously protested Hawksquill’s conclusions. “The power of certain charlatans,” he went on, “isn’t to be despised. We learned that in last summer’s marches and riots. The Church of All Streets fracas. Et cetera. Of course such power is usually short-lived. It’s not real power. All wind, really: A storm soon passed. They know it, too…”
“But,” said another member, “when such a one is introduced to real power—promised a share in it—his opinions indulged—his vanity flattered…”
“Then he can be enlisted. He can be used, frankly.”
“You see,” said the senior member, waving away the drink-tray offered him, “in the large scheme, Russell Eigenblick has no real powers, no strong adherents. A few clowns in colored shirts, a few devoted men. His oratory moves; but who remembers next day? If he stirred up great hatreds, or mobilized old bitternesses—but he doesn’t. It’s all vagueness. So: we’ll offer him real allies. He has none. He’ll accept. There are lures we have. He’ll be ours. And damn useful he might prove, too.”
“Hm,” Hawksquill said again. Schooled as she had been in the purest of studies, on the highest of planes, she had never found deception and evasion easy. That Russell Eigenblick had no allies was, anyway, true. That he was a cat’s-paw for forces more powerful, less namable, more insidious than the Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club could imagine, she ought by rights to inform them: though she herself could not yet name those forces. But she had been released from the case. They wouldn’t anyway—she could see it in their smug faces—probably listen to her. Still she blushed, fiercely, at what she withheld from them, and said, “I think I’ll have a drop of this. Will no one join me?”
“The fee,” said a member, watching her closely as she poured for him, “need not be returned, of course.”
She nodded at him. “When exactly do you put your plan into execution?”