The Black Opera

by Mary Gentle

  Conrad is for a moment back in the house owned by his Uncle Baltazar, where his mother and sister now live, watching the open cracks high up the mountain, that emit veils of smoke by day, and spitting lava by night.

  “It was bound to happen.” Ferdinand looked at him as though he were missing the obvious. “As soon as the black opera began their preliminary rehearsals.”

  Conrad could find nothing to say for several minutes. The King broke the silence between them, speaking under the low murmur of the collecting congregation.

  “Come in to see me tomorrow morning, Conrad. You and I must talk.”

  Regret went through Conrad for the possibility of a day out with Tullio, and likely Paolo, lost to a sense of responsibility. He pushed it aside.

  “Don’t you think, sir, it would be better to discuss anything new now?”

  Ferdinand at last nodded. “It’s becoming apparent that we don’t have much time.”

  He summoned servants, ordering a carriage for Conrad and Tullio alone—Conrad did not object.

  We need a truly private discussion, I think.

  The carriage fought its way through Naples’ crowded, narrow streets; between high buildings strung with washing between balconies and open shutters. They climbed a long hill almost too steep for the horses, coming to eventual clear ground with palms, cypresses, and buds growing to excess.

  Conrad recognised the half-built building site on the hill-top, and pointed it out to Tullio. “Vomero hill’s new museum and observatory.”

  Tullio Rossi looked under-impressed.

  Conrad followed Tullio down from the carriage, Tullio having pulled down the steps to let him descend, and found himself wishing he had his boots instead of his shoes, and a heavier coat on.

  The view gave them the Gulf of Naples from Sorrento and Capri over to Vesuvius. The brisk wind in the exposed place would carry any speech away. Conrad caught sight of Tullio looking about himself with a pleased expression—not so much at the sea-wind, and the scent of sulphur drifting from the Burning Fields over to the south-west, as at the distance they were above Naples’ roofs, and how unlikely it was, therefore, that anyone could overhear them.

  Some fifteen minutes later, King Ferdinand arrived in a coach with no royal coat of arms on the door.

  “I trust you as your master does,” Ferdinand said to Tullio as he approached. “What you might hear, you’ll keep silent. And it would be advisable, I think, were you to patrol these slopes, just in case there are enemies who would take advantage of us being here. Go.”

  Tullio caught Conrad’s eye.

  He’s got used to Paolo-Isaura and the opera people, and we don’t treat him as a servant…

  Conrad was relieved to see amusement rather than resentment.

  Tullio Rossi dropped the King a salute. “Yes, sire!”

  Conrad felt an arm link through his as Tullio sloped off, the very picture of a skiving servant.

  The King led Conrad towards the green top of Vomero Hill. He released Conrad’s arm and lifted his finger, pointing to the south, and traced an imaginary path out from the harbour, west of Sorrento and Capri, south into the Tyrrhenean Sea. It was evident he was not concerned with the shimmering Mediterranean blue, or the light here, which Conrad thought painters would avidly die to have.

  “I want you to leave Naples for a while, signore.” Ferdinand’s tone was equable, not condemning.

  Conrad felt awkward nonetheless. “I haven’t finished the libretto—”

  “You’ve completed enough of the first two Acts that il Conte di Argente will be busy for a week setting it, and the cast rehearsing it.”

  Ferdinand looked at him suddenly, his expression sympathetic.

  “You need to grieve for your father. As for this business between you and the Count—I want you out of here while both you and Capiraso calm down. You must reach a point where you can agree to work together: that won’t happen in the thick of all this. Additionally, I desire you out of the way of the Prince’s Men—and if I can smuggle you out of the city quickly enough, today, you will be. When you return, I’ll have defensive measures in place here, and for your family in Catania. For the moment… I would rather you were safe.”

  Conrad was warmed despite himself.

  “Then… where do I go?” He frowned, having a sudden suspicion. “What do I do?”

  “Ah.” Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily looked very bland. “Politicians always have more than one motive… Yes, there is something I would like you to do, Conrad. If you have no objection, I should like you to act as my… diplomatic aide, shall we say?… and take a message from me to a man in exile.”

  I’ll have to agree or disagree based solely on this much information, that’s obvious.

  “I don’t blame you for not trusting me, sir,” Conrad said frankly. “Since I can’t tell you if I did reveal anything to my—To Alfredo.”

  There was an odd hardness in the King’s gaze. “I trust you, Conrad. A man doesn’t have two fathers. It’s not likely that circumstance will arise again.”

  Conrad found it difficult to accept the understanding in the man’s gaze.

  Would it be so bad if I were gone for a day or two?

  If I know Roberto Capiraso, the next thing “Il Superbo” is likely to do is flaunt the fact that he’s married to Leonora—bring her to rehearsals, invite us all to social dinners, offer to let us use his horses to ride… and all so that it’s plain she’s at his side, and no one else’s.

  “How long will I be away from the opera, sire?”

  “I would say… less than a week.”

  When I get back, we’ll likely be too close to deadline for il Superbo’s stupid games…

  Conrad did not choose to think about Alfredo Scalese at all.

  “All right—yes, sir,” Conrad corrected himself. “I’ll take your message. Where am I to go?”

  “You’ll have sealed orders, to be opened once you’re aboard ship. However, I can tell you the general nature of what you’ll be doing.”

  Conrad nodded. As the thought occurred to him, he added, “Will I be able to take a servant with me?”

  The King looked wry. “Yes, you may bring Tullio Rossi.” The unspoken end of the sentence seemed to be As if either of us could stop him coming with you!

  “Thank you, sir.” Conrad reached up and settled his hat before the wind could send it bowling. “What am I to be doing, then?”

  “We have a chance to avert another move by the Prince’s Men—but this one is on a much larger scale than the attack on the rehearsal hall.”

  Conrad’s stomach twisted.

  How did I come to be responsible for so many people’s safety? Oh yes—I volunteered.

  “It concerns matters outside Naples itself.” Ferdinand glanced around, and Conrad found himself gripped by the elbow and steered towards a large rock in the lee of the half-built walls.

  Without so much as looking for servants, Ferdinand dusted off the granite with his gloves. “Sit.”

  The slab was a reasonable substitute for a bench. Conrad eased himself down—caught himself sitting in the presence of the monarch and half stood up—and felt Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily’s hand pushing on his shoulder. The King seated himself on the same slab of rock.

  In the lee of the new stonework, the wind was cut off. It felt warm enough that Conrad could feel his body unconsciously relaxing from its clenched stiffness. The sound of the wind through the bushes, and the feel of the sun on his face, somehow made it easier to regain his composure.

  “Please continue, sir.”

  The outdoor light made the King’s round face look pallidly unhealthy—it gave Conrad cause to wonder how long the man had been in meetings and conferences, aimed at fighting the threat to his kingdom.

  “I visited more than Ætna when I was absent,” Ferdinand remarked, on an apparent tangent. “On the return voyage, I also called at the island of Stromboli.”

  The southern volcanic islands were not visible from here, all
of them—Vulcano, Stromboli, Salina, Lipari, Alicudi and Filicudi, and the rest—being a short distance north of island-Sicily.

  Conrad found his gaze straying to mainland-Sicily’s volcano, where Vesuvius breathed a haze into the upper atmosphere. “And the Stromboli volcano?”

  “There was volcanic upheaval, as ever, from the Lighthouse of the Mediterranean. That’s not why I went. I was… summoned.”

  Startled, Conrad turned his head. Ferdinand seemed as if he tasted something bitter—as if he didn’t like the implications of force, but couldn’t omit them.

  “In some ways, I owe this throne to the Northern Empire.” The King’s mouth twisted as he gazed down on Naples. It was possible from here to pick out Egg Castle, and further along the shore, the roofs of the Palazzo Reale and the Teatro San Carlo. “You’re aware of my father’s… erratic politics in the last war?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ferdinand appeared to require some confirmation. Conrad added, “‘Erratic’ is one of the kinder terms for a man who’d sign treaties and break them before he finished the carriage-ride home…”

  Ferdinand winced. “Despite that, I managed—after his death—to persuade the North to leave the Two Sicilies alone. It wouldn’t have been difficult for France to put in a puppet governor in my place, or leave us to the Hapsburgs. They did neither, but they still could. So, when they give me commands, I have to agree… Shall we walk on?”

  Conrad rose and dusted himself off, following the King’s lead in walking around the half-risen walls of what would in time become the new museum.

  “I would like to ask you for further assistance, Conrad. How much do you know about the situation in the North, after the end of the war?”

  “Not much.” Since it seemed to be an afternoon for honesty, Conrad added, “After the fighting I was in, a man steers clear of the thought that it was all for nothing.”

  Ferdinand snorted, but it was a noise of agreement, not derision.

  Conrad pieced his knowledge together. “After the Armistice at Waterloo… The fighting ended, and later I heard the Emperor of the North was still on his throne. I gave up following political affairs.” In disgust, went unspoken. “Word has it, he’s given up foreign conquest, and is concentrating on building up trade so the Gallic Empire won’t fall behind Britain and the Americas. Is that true, sir?”

  “True enough. He needs prosperity. Or else the people might start remembering his amazing run of victories, and how that’s now over.”

  Ferdinand began to walk back along the cleared earth before the new building. His restlessness might have been physical, but Conrad—treading in his wake—thought it was not.

  “Before the war,” the King said, “Signore Castiello-Salvati helped with the diplomatic negotiations between Sicily and the North… I don’t know how much he told the Prince’s Men before he died. As little as he could, I expect. But they are ruthless in what they do.”

  There was a moment’s silence in which Conrad felt plainly how the King missed the man with whom he had worked closely.

  He’s lost a friend, and one of the few who know him as a man, not a king. It will take him years, if not longer, to decide whether another man is trustworthy.

  The slow illumination came. And I suppose it begins with trusting them to work for him.

  Conrad put the momentous thought aside for consideration. As gently as he could, he said, “I don’t yet understand what you’re telling me, sir.”

  The King of the Two Sicilies walked on, leaving the new building behind, and Conrad followed him past evergreen groves of holm oak, palm, and the stark trunks and penumbral clumps of umbrella pine. If not warm, the day was nonetheless brilliant, and if there was snow on the black of Vesuvius’s crown, there were buds in the bushes here, spring well underway.

  The King at last stopped at the top of a bluff. Naples lay below. His shoulders straightened.

  “It appears—” Ferdinand clasped his white-gloved hands behind his back. “—that there has been a secret coup. The Emperor of the North has been deposed, and sent into exile.”

  “What!”

  “Oh, you won’t have read this in the Giornale.” Ferdinand turned his head and pinned Conrad with a no-nonsense gaze. “Most of the councillors of the Empire have been confidentially told that the Emperor is dying. That includes all his old Generals, who most certainly wouldn’t allow him to be put out of power if they knew he wasn’t dying—isn’t even ill.”

  The King frowned.

  “This is a long-laid plot. It plays on the fears of the Generals and Council members that, without the Emperor, the North will fall into ruin, and therefore the passing-over of power must be strictly orchestrated. The heads of the Council have long planned that, in such a case, they will make graded announcements, over some months—the Emperor has had a riding accident—an injury—from which he recovers—relapses—is ill—is dying… And by that time every position of power will be filled with staunch Council supporters, there’ll be no dissent, and the only thing to be arranged will be the State funeral.”

  Conrad found himself quite literally open-mouthed.

  He blurted out, “He’s been sent into exile?”

  “Oh, quite. Where could he be sent? Who could—would—take him, and be trusted to keep quiet about it?” Ferdinand snapped off a pine twig and began stripping the short needles from it, one at a time. “As things stand, the Emperor has been anonymously exiled to the island of Stromboli. And, since that’s part of my territory, I’m his prison governor. Hence my visit, to see him properly imprisoned.”

  Ferdinand held up the skeleton twig just as Conrad would have spoken.

  “One move from me that’s sympathetic to his Highness the Emperor—one word—and the secret cabal of Northern councillors who executed the coup can have my throne. We escaped take-over during the war only due to expert diplomacy. Now, unfortunately, that cabal has reason to desire unrest in the Sicilies, to allow them to take control.”

  Conrad blinked. His mind abruptly supplied him with the connection. “That cabal of councillors are Prince’s Men?”

  “Didn’t I tell you, Conrad, that they were everywhere? That includes the Council of the North.”

  The King threw down his twig and started on another, ignoring the green stains on his gloves.

  “We expected a move against us, after they examined our strength. We’ve challenged them with the counter-opera; their spies will have told them that by now. That challenge was always going to be answered. I thought it would be local sabotage. But no… This is on a larger scale than I expected.”

  Conrad fought to settle with the concept that his viewpoint had just shifted from Naples to Europe.

  The figure of Tullio Rossi emerged from bushes further down the bluff, gave Conrad a casual salute, and followed a grassy slope off into another stand of pines.

  “But… If you do everything to keep the Emperor a prisoner…” Conrad frowned. “Then when he escapes, and he will, and re-takes his throne—he’ll take over the Two Sicilies.”

  “Oh, he’ll escape.” Ferdinand gave a dry little nod. “I would prefer to place my bet on the man who won Austerlitz and Borodino, rather than a clutch of politicians, no matter if they have the power of the Prince’s Men at their heart. But as it stands now, it does mean the Prince’s Men in the Empire can twist the screw down on us at their pleasure…”

  “Why not kill the Emperor?” Conrad suddenly asked. “Why just depose him?”

  Ferdinand showed his teeth in a smile. “Too much awe. The ‘Great Emperor’? There are too few of the Prince’s Men as Councillors. If they’d used the knife on the Emperor, every other man’s hand would turn against them—or, if they weren’t known to be the murderers, the court would tear itself apart to find guilty men. So, a compromise: his Imperial Majesty is sent away to where he’ll ultimately die of ‘sickness’—poison.”

  Conrad reached over and took the stripped, bark-less twig out of Ferdinand’s hands and tossed it away—only reali
sing afterwards that this probably amounted to severe lèse majesté.

  But it would be worse if I’d strangled him out of sheer irritation!

  “Any way the Two Sicilies comes out of it, the King ends up looking guilty. That’s their plan, sir?”

  “I think that if they leak the plan in advance, so people learn of the Emperor’s imprisonment on one of my islands—they can have me deposed before our counter-opera ever sees the stage.”

  “Che cazzo!” Conrad added, in English, with feeling: “Shite.”

  “Indeed. And I can’t be seen to do anything. However.” Ferdinand smiled crookedly. “I have no intention of letting this attack remove me. In some ways, this latest attention by the Prince’s Men on Naples is fortuitous. I want you to help me arrange a secret escape for the Emperor from Stromboli. One I can reasonably claim that I don’t know anything about.”

  CHAPTER 25

  And I’d been thinking I was used to shocks.

  All Conrad could manage was an embarrassing squeak.

  “Me? I’m not a diplomat! I’m a librettist!”

  “I believe you capable. As I said, a day or two out of the city, just now, will ameliorate some of our immediate problems. I ask you because of the nature of the planned escape,” Ferdinand said, “and because I judge I can trust you.”

  The King might be thinking of blackmail: of Alfredo Scalese, of the ever-present difficulties with the Church—But he’s not, Conrad was startled to realise.

  There are things which would give Ferdinand a hold over me, and he’s not stupid enough to ignore them. But he’s made an assessment of my character. An atheist’s character.

  And I must have made an assessment of his: I’m trusting that I won’t be set up.

  Taken aback, Conrad was not aware until the King waved a sheet of paper at him that it was an annotated calendar. A neat hand had drawn maps in the margins. The King’s finger traced down the paper to March, and to the fourteenth, re-folded it, and gave it to Conrad to put away in his coat.