The Black Opera

by Mary Gentle

  The lieutenant frowned but seemed willing to listen. “You know what this is?”

  “In laboratories it’s called white phosphorus. The Turks make use of it on the battlefield, calling it ‘Greek Fire.’ It doesn’t need to be set on fire; it just burns on contact with air.” Conrad waved an arm at the hall, and fell into giving orders: “Use sand, or earth. Keep it smothered. Keep the air away from it. There’s plenty of dirt here and you have enough men.”

  The lieutenant responded to the tone and briskly nodded agreement.

  Conrad grabbed his arm before he could shout commands. “The important thing—that garlic smell—the gas it gives off?—That’s poison. Wear wet cloths over your nose and mouth. Don’t breathe it. Oh and tell your men, on no account let any of the fire touch them. It sticks and keeps on burning through skin and everything, and the only way to cure it is to cut the flesh away.”

  Realisation made the lieutenant’s eyes wide. He recognised the last description, so much was clear.

  Somebody already got too close—

  The lieutenant gave Conrad’s hand a brief shake. “Come with me, signore. I need all the advice I can get if we’re to stop it spreading.”

  An hour later—the fire mostly subdued, and the police lieutenant in close conversation with a newly-arrived Colonel in the uniform of the King’s Rifles—Conrad startled almost into the air as a shout exploded behind him:

  “Corradino!”

  Powerful fingers grabbed his arm hard enough that he would have bruises.

  He was swung round roughly enough to lose his balance. Clutching at the man accosting him, he found himself holding by the shoulders a white-faced Tullio Rossi.

  Soot blackened Tullio’s shirt and face, and he was streaked with sweat. The rising sun illuminated him, making him slit his eyes as he stared at Conrad.

  “I thought you—Porco-giuda-Judas-pig! JohnJack! Sandrine! He’s here!”

  Spinelli, likewise in shirtsleeves, all but ran across the paved square, Sandrine half a pace behind in tiny black heeled boots. The seconda donna Estella Belucci made a game third place, blonde hair coming down out of its pins.

  Conrad grunted helplessly as Spinelli opened his arms and gave him a bear-like embrace.

  “We thought—”

  “—the fire started—”

  “—the corner where you sit—”

  “—you left your books there—!”

  Sandrine hugged him to her with an amazon grip. Estella Belucci, her eyes bright with sentimental tears, waved her new cavaliere servente the tenor Bonfigli over, and in a fit of joy embraced him and Conrad together.

  “We thought you were dead.” Tullio’s hand thumped hard into Conrad’s shoulder. “You fucking mule-dick!”

  That also brought back memories of war-time. Conrad only grinned as the rest laughed. He found himself touched on the arm or shoulder by most of those present, as if they assured themselves of his survival that way.

  A shout echoed from the chain of men passing buckets. The last of the fire died down as the contents of a dozen leather buckets hit simultaneously. More sand, Conrad recognised, hearing the thuds as it spattered the floor.

  He found himself cold, and not from the early breeze.

  “Last night—What happened in there? I was in the palace, in the library. The rehearsal… Who was on guard after…?”

  “We went off to eat at ten,” Estella put in breathlessly. “We worked ourselves as hard as you’d wish—as hard as that slave-driver Count Argente! We agreed we’d go home then; some of us go to early Mass today. We wanted to start first thing after that. The King’s riflemen were on guard last night. But then, we arrived…”

  The remains of the church hall hissed softly in the morning air. Now it was daylight, it looked more like a building site than a building, covered with piles of earth and the skeletons of walls.

  Conrad wrenched his gaze away. “Have they brought any bodies out?”

  Tullio snorted again. “Half of them are too afraid to go right in and look!”

  “It’s not natural!” the tenor Lorenzo Bonfigli whined.

  JohnJack Spinelli slapped Bonfigli hard between the shoulder-blades. “Get back in there and help!”

  “No, not yet.” Conrad pulled on his responsibilities like a heavy coat. “Wait until the fire’s definitely out. You don’t want burns from that, trust me. Mean-while—Has anyone taken a roll-call? JohnJack, you go round here and take the names of any of the company who’ve arrived. Sandrine, you and Tullio split up, go see who’s still at home. Check Signore Velluti.”

  “Paolo took him home,” Tullio said.

  The Sun soared above the horizon in a lemon blaze. Conrad paced here, there, wherever he could; talking with the police and infantry as they were finally recalled out of the blackened building, the fire quenched.

  Conrad was not surprised when a rifleman arrived with a subdued summons to the presence of Ferdinand of the House of Bourbon-Sicily.

  He met the King on the sea-walk, close by the hall, Ferdinand cloaked and in a respectable gentleman’s coat and trousers, with nothing to mark him out from anyone else.

  He paced over the damp flagstones towards Conrad. “You’re getting a bit careless with theatres, Corrado…”

  “Funny, sir. Funny.”

  Ferdinand’s smile was as wry as his own.

  In a voice that, while not a whisper, would not carry six feet away, the King said, “My people have been interviewing the singers and theatre crew who got here earliest this morning. The report I have is that a group of unknown men infiltrated the building a very short time before the witch-fire burned.”

  Major Mantenucci came briskly towards them, and, at a signal from the King, relaxed, removing his hat and running his fingers through his cropped salt-and-pepper hair.

  “It will have been the Men,” he grunted. “Or their lackeys, obviously. There’s sufficient damage to the main hall that it’s impossible to hold further rehearsals here. St Abadios’ aren’t pleased.”

  Conrad bit his lip until he tasted blood. Better than swearing in front of the King of the Two Sicilies. Particularly since I might not stop. This on top of everything else!

  “Do we have no idea who’s behind it?” he burst out. “The—Men—” He managed Mantenucci’s half-euphemism. “—They must have a local leader! If they’re Europe-wide, someone who’s come in from the outside—”

  Ferdinand held his hand up, though with an expression that said he sympathised with Conrad’s frustration. “Enrico?”

  “According to the information my officers have, orders are relayed via several lieutenants. They don’t see the leader’s face. The inner circle may, but we have no informants there.”

  The police Commendatore scowled.

  “The low-level men believe the leader is from outside the Two Sicilies. It could be so. Or it could be a bluff deliberately put around. From what information I have, I believe their leader to be a revolutionary—I suspect, raised in poor, violent circumstances, perhaps without family. That the leader hides his identity leads me to suspect he’s now in far better circumstances, a well-off man who’s welcome as a gentleman in society, perhaps with a wife, and who therefore wishes to avoid any scandal as to his origins or activities. Either he or his minions are remarkably knowledgeable about bel canto and the demi-monde of Naples itself. We’ve stopped attempts at sabotage that were keenly aimed.”

  Conrad groaned. “Half the well-off gentlemen high up in the Local Racket meet that description! How will you tell the difference?”

  Mantenucci gave a shrug that spoke himself disgusted with their lack of success.

  “As to rehearsals…” The King let his gaze travel in the direction of the smoke, still lazing up into the air from the ruined hall. “We could move to a small opera house. The Fondo, perhaps. But… then we risk losing that house. After your company left for the evening, every one of the men I had watching here was decoyed away in some fashion. Conrad, you didn’t come d
own here last night?”

  “I intended to, sir, but I ended up being productive in the library, and stayed there.”

  Ferdinand nodded absently. “Good. We need a complete libretto as soon as possible. I think… Conrad, do I have your attention?”

  His sight had blurred, staring out at the harbour and the boats going out. The taste of Greek Fire still sullied his tongue.

  With difficulty, he managed, “Sir?”

  “Evidently we can’t conceal royal involvement now. We tried hiding in plain sight, and the Men found out what you were and where you were rehearsing, without difficulty.” Ferdinand rubbed his hands briskly against the dawn cold. “Starting today, I’ll let people know that our funding should pay workers to do double hours, and also pay for considerable increased security.”

  Mantenucci rumbled reluctant agreement. Conrad forced himself to concentrate, wiping both hands down his coat, ignoring the soot staining the lapels.

  There’s something in my mind, something I can almost see—

  Ferdinand gazed about, pleased with the anonymity the crowd brought him. “Additional men from Colonel Alvarez’s regiment will be brought in. Now we only have to think where the company can continue rehearsals without outside interference.”

  Still with the back of his mind busy, Conrad shoved his hands in his pockets against the early morning air.

  “Castell dell’Ovo. Sir?” He glanced along the shoreline, but they were too far around the headland to see the stark silhouette. “I know Egg Castle hasn’t been much refurbished since Norman times, but it’s on a peninsula—just—and a garrison could make it completely defensible. There’s bound to be suitable rooms inside for rehearsal. Although the musicians will complain about the damp.”

  Ferdinand looked amused. “Major Mantenucci?”

  The Major’s upright figure shifted from the balls to the heels of his feet. If Conrad had not suspected Enrico Mantenucci last let the emotion show at the age of thirteen, he would have thought the man was embarrassed.

  “I have also been thinking radically.” Mantenucci said it as if it were a confession. “I hope you don’t object, sir.”

  “Not at all.” The King spread his hands. “Continue.”

  “Well, then. The trouble with Egg Castle is that it is a castle. Once you’re in, you’re besieged, and they always know where to find you. On the other hand… You know that this city is old, and there are many layers of buildings. We have had cause to investigate catacombs, shrines, old aqueducts, in the past. But more to the point, sire, there are also great stone chambers under Naples, that it appears were carved out in Roman times by men mining for the volcanic rock. There’s a lot of room, it’s cool, and it’s dry.”

  The King nodded enthusiastically. “Surely that would have wonderful acoustics for rehearsals!”

  In the east’s harsh light, Enrico Mantenucci’s face showed deep determined lines. “There are a limited and manageable number of exits and entrances. All could be protected by armed men. Whereas the singers can be attacked in places like this—” He waved casually at the blackened beams. “—Under Naples, there would be less danger of that. Any trouble and they could be led out by other routes.”

  Conrad found himself nodding.

  “Assuming all of us can be trusted.” Ferdinand pulled his coat more tightly around himself in the brisk wind. “But that’s always a consideration. Very well, Enrico—can I rely on you to clear out the required spaces?”

  “Sir!”

  Conrad went to move off in the police chief’s wake. The King’s hand rested on his shoulder.

  “Is there something else? You seem concerned.” Ferdinand’s plump, bland expression was surprisingly penetrating. “Have you, for example, spoken to Roberto Capiraso or his wife since you left prison?”

  “No, sir. Yes, there’s something, but that’s not it.”

  I feel fear, Conrad realised.

  Because of what my mind has been turning over, while I dealt with hysterical friends and a damaged building…

  Everything fits. I just wish it didn’t.

  “What is it, Conrad?”

  “Sir, I think that someone else knew, beforehand, that the rehearsal hall was going to burn last night.” Speech hurt Conrad’s dry throat. “I was decoyed away, like your guards.”

  Ferdinand lifted his brows. His voice, if firm, was sympathetic. “By who?”

  “My father.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Your father?” Ferdinand exclaimed. “Your father’s dead! If he wasn’t, you wouldn’t have inherited his debts, and I wouldn’t have had to twist the arm of the Conte di Galdi!”

  “He often appears as a spectre, sir.”

  The wind off the sea lifted Conrad’s short hair.

  “It was done so neatly I didn’t notice. Someone knew enough to decoy me in the library with just the books I might want—knew enough to keep me talking, and to delay me until it was too late to be worth going to the rehearsal hall.”

  Conrad looked down at his hands. The extremity of his fingers were white, either with cold or dread.

  “My father knows me too well. Either he did this deliberately, or he was a dupe who told others about me. I swear, I only talked to Father about the story of the opera. But clearly that was too much.”

  Further down the crowded street, Conrad saw Major Mantenucci in conversation with Tullio.

  Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily slipped his arm through Conrad’s, and Conrad found himself steered back on the way towards the Palazzo Reale. They ended up on one of the quays.

  The King stopped and gazed out over the choppy Bay, and the two blues of sea and sky, rubbing both his hands together. “Alfredo Scalese—a true ghost?”

  Conrad shrugged. “Difficult to say, sir. He always looks like Father. He knows what Alfredo would say in any situation. Whether it is a remnant of the man I knew, or whether it’s just an echo of some sort, I can’t say.”

  If I decided that, I’d have to decide how I feel about what he says.

  “He was very intent on keeping me in the library all night. I don’t know if that was to protect me, or to prevent me stopping the fire, or even both.”

  Conrad drew a breath.

  “But I’ve had time to think, now. And I should have seen this before… It’s obvious. There shouldn’t have been anyone in Naples who knew about all of Alfredo’s debts.”

  The waters of the Gulf of Napoli beat on the rocks at the foot of the wall.

  Conrad stared at the repeating waves, rather than look at King Ferdinand’s face. “I hadn’t spread the news around. I never do. It’s my business, and only mine. And yet, Adalrico Silvestri knew exactly what to demand—and from who—down to every last tiny creditor.”

  It was on his lips to explain further, to describe how Alfredo Scalese owed gambling debts in Prussia, rent in Westphalia, money for a South American mining scheme in St Petersburg, and fifty others that only a son should know.

  The King’s expression showed it was unnecessary. “I should have realised that.”

  As for who else knows details—the Pironti family? Doubtful, since it turns out I haven’t been communicating with Gianpaolo Pironti all these years… Isaura will know.

  I trust her implicitly.

  Conrad wiped his mouth in a vain attempt to get rid of the taste of smoke, and blurted, “Therefore—I think it must be true—that my father is with the Prince’s Men!”

  Ferdinand’s hand rested briefly, comfortingly, on his arm.

  “I talked to him,” Conrad finished miserably. “And I don’t, in all honesty, remember everything I said. They could have learned anything through me. Sir, I’m sorry.”

  “I think few men wouldn’t talk to their father, in your place.”

  Ferdinand’s understanding was almost worse than being shouted at.

  “Yes, sir, but I know what he’s like! I’ve always known. He was a loving, wonderfully funny father—who couldn’t be relied on to remember the smallest promise, or
be persuaded to stop doing anything if he felt like doing it.”

  The words came away like scabs being picked off. The only consolation was that they were true. And I should have said them a long time before this.

  “I know my father. If he has fallen in with the Prince’s Men… He’s capable of sabotaging an underground rehearsal, or the San Carlo. Or leading other men—living men—to do it. He won’t be stopped if I ask him, or if someone argues—not for logic or threats—he always does exactly what he likes, and opposition only makes him more bull-headed—”

  “Corrado—”

  “I need to make a request of you, sir.”

  Voices echoed from the nearby crowds, but Conrad felt as though he and Ferdinand stood in deep silence.

  “I want you to tell me, sir, if there’s anything you can do to stop a spy who can pass through any walls, overhear any words, penetrate any locked door.”

  Conrad watched the King’s face lose colour.

  “Then I make a request of you, sire. Will you ask the Cardinal of Naples if he’ll exorcise my father?”

  The Duomo and Archbishop’s Palace had both been built at an earlier age, before the Normans came into Sicily and the mainland, and were based on the foundations of older buildings still. Since the private chapel they entered had survived (among other events) the great medieval earthquake, it had little of the later decorations and alterations of the main church. Squat columns of white stone held up a vaulted roof. Light that managed to slant its way in through Romanesque window-arches turned to champagne. The stone altar breathed antiquity.

  It would have been calming, Conrad thought, if not for the gilded statues of saints, their wounds painted in exact colour, which seemed out of place against the grim original walls. He lost himself in gazing at the racks of prayer-candles. The dazzle allowed him to forget for a time what he was doing here.

  A sensation of proximity made him look up.

  A man in Dominican black and white rested both hands on the back of the pew.

  “Signore.” The voice was familiar.