by Mary Gentle
“Ignoring astronomy, Signore Conrad?” Enrico Mantenucci blandly commented.
Conrad felt his ears blush hot.
The King set three of the cups in a line on the map-chest, ignoring the police chief’s amusement. “The Sun—the Moon—the Earth. Like so. Apparently there’s a strain on the Earth with such a direct line. They tell me the Sun’s and Moon’s gravity affects, not just the tides of the sea, but the ‘tides of the Earth,’ if you like. Lava and magma become unstable, under the earth. It was at such a high earth-tide that Tambora erupted.”
Conrad examined the cups carefully. “Would a solar eclipse be better?—Worse, that is, from our point of view?”
Ferdinand nodded, clearly pleased. “A direct line-up would provide more stress on the Earth. It seems that the Prince’s Men have known since Tambora’s eruption that they needed to wait for a suitable eclipse, or partial eclipse. If you were to look in any Almanac, you’ll find there are precious few this side of the next half century. Only one is suitable.”
He opened the almanac and turned it around to face Conrad.
“The path of a partial eclipse crosses Italy’s southern states, including both Sicilies, on the fourteenth of March. All the evidence points to that being the date they’ve chosen.”
Conrad frowned. “March?”
He looked closer.
Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily raked his fingers through his Brutus-cut brown hair, reducing the fashionable style to a street-brat’s crop. “I’m afraid so.”
“But it’s—” Conrad stared at the entry. “February now. And—This March? Not next spring? It would be—That’s six weeks from now!”
The King of the Two Sicilies laughed out loud.
It might be the release of tension.
Or again, I may just look completely fish-smacked.
Ferdinand murmured an apology.
Conrad hardly heard it. “I thought a year, at least! No book, no score, and—You need an opera in six weeks.”
“Of course, that would be the thing, out of all, to disconcert you…” Ferdinand’s humour changed to a grave regard. “Conrad, to be clear, I’m asking you to write the libretto for my opera. You’ll have six weeks to put on a first night. I’ll let you have the Teatro San Carlo. I know that you gave me your decision—but the options are still open. Now’s the time to change your mind, if you desire to.”
The dazzle of being a librettist at Naples’ premier opera house blinded Conrad for a moment. The ligaments and tendons of his knees felt loose. Conrad bit back the words of immediate acceptance. He suppressed that part of himself that wanted to shout, Yes, I’ll do it, I’ll write your opera!
He regarded Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily, attempting to clear from his mind any remnants of deference for royalty that might be influencing him. And the fact that I like this man.
“Six weeks is a short time for an opera to be composed, rehearsed, and staged,” Conrad said, mildly as he might.
“True.”
“And you’ve known about the black opera for—some time?”
“Also true.”
Conrad collected his wits. I can’t let this slide.
“Normally,” he said, “any man, if asked, would jump at the chance to write an opera for the King of the Two Sicilies. But in all this time, apparently, no one has. Therefore I have to ask, sire. What’s the catch?”
King Ferdinand exchanged an indecipherable glance with Enrico Mantenucci.
“I’d want you to oversee the production in general,” Ferdinand said blandly. “You’d handle the staging and manage the singers, as is normal for a librettist, but since I can’t appear as the impresario, you’d have to take that on, too—at least, in name. I’m told you have many contacts in the opera world—singers, stagehands, costumiers, builders of effects… I’ll put as much finance in your hands as you need.”
Am I supposed to notice that he hasn’t answered my question?
The impulse to simply agree pulled at him like gravity.
Even if the Prince’s Men are nothing more than a gang of lunatic revolutionaries lurking in corners—even if the Tambora volcano was a fluke—If they’re wrong about the threat… I’d still be staging my own libretto at one of the greatest theatres in Italy!
In six weeks.
…Barely six weeks.
Conrad forced himself to speak as calmly as possible. “If I were a King, with a King’s resources, and I needed to counter the ‘black opera’—I’d be looking for Felice Romani, the premier librettist of Italy, to write my arias and cabalettas and strettas. And I’d ask Donizetti and Mercadante, Bellini and Pacini, maybe even Rossini, to compose the music. I’d bring in every famous singer that I could hire, no matter the cost and inconvenience. Rubini and Duprez and Domzelli for your tenors! Tamborini and Luigi Lablache as basses; Caroline Ungher as contralto; sopranos of the class of Giulia Grisi, Giudita Pasta, Adelaide Tosi, Malibran—”
Conrad broke away from the image of what a production under royal command might truly be like.
“I certainly wouldn’t wait until only six weeks remained!… And yet, sir, that appears to be what you’ve done.”
Ferdinand watched him with quiet interest.
“I’m not as good as Felice Romani,” Conrad admitted brutally, “even if I may be, one day soon. Is this something designed to counter the black opera? Or is the ‘counter opera’ a diversion of some kind, to keep the agents of the Prince’s Men busy, and draw them out, so that when they attack this opera, they can be caught?”
The King of the Two Sicilies beamed. “You’re not a stupid man, are you?”
Conrad’s heart gave a galloping lurch, as if his body had not been aware until then how much he was risking by interrogating a king.
He sounds… as if he approves.
Ferdinand spoke with a pleased air. “Well, then, it’s true that I won’t object if the opera does function as a lure, and I manage to finally arrest any of the members of the conspiracy. Every where my people look, delays are put in our way, agents are turned aside, men give alibis to each other… There are ‘men of the Prince’ in every country, including mine. But—”
Conrad suppressed his almost-voiced interruption.
Ferdinand’s voice held the bite of conviction.
“—If it were that, I wouldn’t have needed to tell you the truth about the black opera. Or trust your oath—your affirmation. This is the truth. If we fail to find and disrupt the site of the black opera before the partial eclipse, then our only method is to fight fire with fire—we stage a counteracting opera, at the exact same time as theirs. An opera of our own, written and composed to be everything that the black opera is not. And the power and passion behind our words and music will—must—counter the effect that the Prince’s Men wish for.”
Ferdinand paused, looking soberly at Conrad.
“You’re no dupe or diversion. We must have the counter-opera, and it must succeed.”
Conrad hesitated, and then gestured at himself. “And the reason Felice Romani isn’t sitting in this chair?”
“Oh, that’s simple enough.” Ferdinand waved expansively. “When all this was finally confirmed beyond doubt, I did approach those men whom I considered to be the best composers and librettists in the field. At the beginning of last year, after I was sure we would have until the following spring’s eclipse, I hired the finest singers I could. The Teatro San Carlo workshops were filled with craftsmen night and day, constructing settings for the scenes—”
“That production at the Teatro San Carlo was you? Sir,” Conrad added, softening his interruption. “I know a lot of people who worked in the San Carlo rehearsals that summer. And stagehands and crew. I heard before I came here that it was supposed to be for a big production, but it… got the reputation of being unlucky…”
Conrad could only stare at the King.
Ferdinand confirmed, “It was unlucky. There were fires set. That might have been saboteurs. There were bad dreams, and ghosts seen in the opera
house, and the dead walked. We had an exorcism performed, but it didn’t stop them. Letters arrived, with threats that the recipients began to keep to themselves.” He frowned. “You will have heard of the death of the celebrated tenor M. Adolphe Nourrit.”
“Yes… I understood that he came to Naples to learn the chest-voice high C under Signore Donizetti’s teaching. And couldn’t master it, and therefore committed suicide.”
“That story was put about. In fact, it was a gruesome accident in the theatre that was no accident, and proved the last straw for the other principal singers, all of whom fled Naples before the day was out. In case another such accident should happen.”
The King’s expression took on a sardonic humour.
“Nine months from the time we began, the famous impresario I had hired fled, with his belongings in a carpetbag, under cover of darkness, to a hired carriage. Donizetti left for Rome, Bellini for Catania, neither of them having written the music for their scenes—and Gioacchino Rossini fled to Paris, and flatly refuses to come out. Or compose a note.”
Ferdinand stood again, and began to pace the map corridor.
“That production completely collapsed. In the past few weeks I’ve found no professional opera-house composer willing to work for me. I will, however, find one… The reason you’re being given such a short amount of time to succeed in this second attempt is because the first failed so disastrously.”
He turned, and Conrad unconsciously found himself straightening under the King’s gaze.
“I’m a judge of men’s character, Signore Conrad. I don’t think you a man to fear this secret society overmuch—though you will doubtless take the necessary precautions. The House of Bourbon will give you as much freedom and help as possible. Will you have the job?”
The unflattering knowledge of being second choice, the self-evident difficulties with the production, the danger of the Prince’s Men—Even if they are only an association of religious madmen! Conrad’s stubborn scepticism asserted—All of the obstacles seemed nothing, compared to the weight of this man’s trust.
Conrad pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’ve made my decision. This doesn’t change it.”
Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily shook him by the hand. The painfully hard grip conveyed everything of urgency.
“We do still have six weeks.” Conrad glanced around the map gallery, noting that Enrico Mantenucci remained comfortably seated. “I’ve known winter season operas, due for an opening on the twenty-sixth of December, that didn’t start rehearsals until the eighth or tenth of the month. Some of them became classics…”
Ferdinand’s grin was suddenly boyish. “Though I dare say that was with the music composed, the book already written, and the costumes sewn and stage sets built?”
“And better not mention,” Mantenucci completed with gusto, “that some of those same classic operas—Signore Bellini’s Norma, for one!—started off with vile reviews—being sung by a cast rehearsed into exhaustion until four a.m. of the opening morning!”
It lifted Conrad’s mood, oddly enough. The stubbornly wilful part of his character woke. “Oh—people put on operas in six weeks every day…”
Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily gave an amused chuckle. “Those sound like words that will haunt a man!”
Conrad stretched each muscle where he stood, still cramped from the absent weight of his chains. More seriously, he said, “We’ll need to tell the singers and stage-crew something, sire. If only to account for the dangers, and the guards.”
Ferdinand’s expression told him that he had been correct about the presence of guards.
Conrad said, “If I could make a suggestion? We tell them that the Camorra or the other Sicilian group, are determined to stop this opera. We don’t have to say why.”
Ferdinand began slowly to nod assent.
Conrad concluded: “They’ll make up their own rumours. If the singers, musicians, and stagehands have courage enough that they’re prepared to stand up to the società onorata—we needn’t feel too badly about putting them in danger from the Prince’s Men.”
“Because their methods are the same.” Ferdinand hit his fist into his palm. “That’s well thought of! The necessary few, you may need to tell the exact truth. Avoid that if you can—”
Enrico Mantenucci came alert, like a grey-muzzled gun dog.
“—Enrico?”
Distant sharp words sounded. Servants—close at hand.
Conrad heard a scuffle approaching outside the map corridor.
An officer in police uniform stumbled, making a precipitate entry into the gallery. The matt light showed his features pinched and white. He had no attention for any man but his superior officer.
Ferdinand nodded permission. “Go.”
Mantenucci muttered a superficial apology and strode off up the gallery. The interchange when he and his subordinate met was too quiet to be overheard.
Conrad felt embarrassed, out of place. “Should I leave, sir?”
“Not yet. It may be nothing.”
Mantenucci slapped his junior officer on the shoulder, in rough encouragement, and sent him off.
The Major glanced back at the King.
Conrad heard the chair scrape beside him.
Ferdinand stood. Conrad scrambled to his feet as protocol demanded—feeling, too, that Mantenucci’s suddenly-drawn expression required it.
His gaze snapping with comprehension, Ferdinand demanded, “Adriano is—more than late?”
CHAPTER 9
Mantenucci shot a look at Conrad.
He assumes the King will order me out if he wants me gone.
“I’m sorry, sire.” The Commendatore spoke to Ferdinand. “My men have discovered Signore Castiello-Salvati’s body. It’s on the steps going down to the royal dock—someone on the Guiscardo spotted it.”
Conrad’s unwelcome imagination painted the King’s dock, familiar to every man of Napoli; the masts and cat’s-cradle ropes of the moored royal yacht Roberto il Guiscardo, the steps running up to the Palazzo complex… A knot of gathered men who stand, look at each other, look down, look away…
“You’re sure he’s dead?” Ferdinand demanded.
He’s dead, Conrad thought. Or the Commendatore wouldn’t refer to him by name.
“Yes.” Mantenucci flinched. Lines on his face momentarily deepened. “They made it look like a criminal’s death—as if the Camorra or Mafia had killed an informer.”
Conrad kept himself still by an effort. Two years ago he was in Rome, and present by sheer accident when an informer’s body was found on the Isola Tiberina. The memory is still strong. Someone had dropped a sun-bleached sail-cloth over the body, and it was patched and sodden with blood. Spreading edges of the stain showed black where blood was older and drying, vibrant scarlet where it was barely out of the vein.
Flies clustered in blue-green humming armour over one exposed foot.
The odour permeated everything—the fresh stench of blood, that ought to go with sawdust in a clean butcher’s shop. A smell of blood and tissue, not decay…
“It’s also a warning, sire.” Mantenucci broke the silence. “They’ve left him still recognisable.”
“A warning to me.” Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily strode away down the map gallery. His languid stride camouflaged quite how fast he moved. He halted at the end window. After a moment he opened it and leaned his hands on the sill, gazing out over the piazza.
Cumulus clouds sailing up from the west passed directly overhead, casting shadows that ran up the palace walls, and through the gallery. Conrad, alternately chilled and warmed, could not have spoken if challenged at gun-point. He felt grateful for the cool wind. His stomach roiled.
Other memories threatened—the damage done by bayonets, rifles, artillery shells, cavalry sabres.
I was a soldier: I ought not to mind.
Living next to a knacker’s yard in London had failed to make him used to any of its sights and sounds. But if the English Mister Darwin and the others are ri
ght, we’re all animals.
It isn’t the bloodshed, Conrad thought, dimly aware that Mantenucci’s voice still reported to his king. It’s the deliberate cruelty.
On that island in the Tiber, the supposed informer had been left, at dawn, on a piazza not far from both the Hospital and the urine-reeking river. Two years ago, and Conrad still remembers how some curious fool pulled the cloth away.
The dead man lay face-up, in still-wet blood that pooled four yards around him. It took Conrad a moment to realise the body was naked—blood covered over every inch of its skin.
The man’s lips were sewn together, over and over, with saddle-makers’ black thread. Spider-webs of leaking blood marked his cheek and chin. Conrad’s experience of war let him know, He was alive long enough that his mouth moved and tore against the thread. Long enough to know that if he could scream, he might be saved. But—
A razor’s cut sliced round from left to right through the man’s throat, without snagging or catching. A second mouth, opened in lieu of the sealed one, but this one would never speak.
That it had spurted and gushed was obvious by how blood ran away down the cracks between flagstones, and pooled in rounded ancient stone gutters. It was tracked away on careless boots and shoes. Between that smell, the river, and Conrad finding his own shoes leaving bloody footprints, he finally found a private corner and vomited.
This is how the people of whom we don’t talk signal that they’ve killed an informer—a spy.
Ferdinand stood at the window with his head down, weight on his supporting arms.
Conrad involuntarily pictured blood-soaked black hair flopping over well-shaped brows, as the King had described them, and blue eyes dry and dull. Is this what Ferdinand imagines now?
Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily leaned out of the open window and emptied his stomach in a businesslike manner onto the balcony.
I would suppose he’s seen bodies like this, too.
Beside Conrad, Enrico Mantenucci rumbled in an undertone that didn’t carry. “Kings don’t have friends at court. Everyone in this poison viper’s pit has their own interests. I suppose, as an educated young man, you’ll have heard of the Varangian Guard?”
