The Black Opera (54 page)

That gave rise to complete hubbub.

Roberto Capiraso shouldered through the assembled company to lean down beside Conrad's chair. “Will you tell them everything?”

“It's bound to come out once we start. Better to volunteer the information.”

Il Conte di Argente slowly nodded.

Conrad clapped his hands once, loud as a shot, and let the echoes from the great bottle-shape of the Roman mine make a silence for him.

“This is it, in brief. The Prince's Men are putting on an opera. We know nothing about their singers, or what theatre will put it on—we suspect a private performance. We
do
know what the black opera will do. The activity of Vesuvius
and the Campi Flegrei are only the start.”

Conrad shivered, aware of the cavernous darkness above him, and the dark maze of passages that were the only way back to the light. He looked from one man's face to the next, and likewise the women. He drew on memories of briefing his troop, in the mountainous north, to speak without his voice shaking.

“Most of you here will remember the Year Without a Summer. The snow. The starvation. If the King's Natural Philosophers are correct, it wasn't God's punishment for the war. It was the natural result of a volcano in the Far East, which erupted powerfully enough to cloud the skies with dust for a year.”

“But—And Vesuvius—” JohnJack's dark eyes met his, quick mind clearly having made the connection.

“The
effect
of that volcano, Tambora, may have been natural, blocking off the sunlight and prolonging winter. The eruption itself was
not
natural.”

There was silence enough that Conrad could hear water trickling in the underground aqueducts, and boards creaking underfoot as people shifted. He wished for help from Roberto, but a glance made it clear that Conrad would be the King's only interpreter as far as natural philosophy was concerned.

He sketched a blunt account of what the previous black opera had brought about in Indonesia—and what the current one might do to Italy.

“Motives and causes are not so important,” he said grimly, “compared to the extent of the expected catastrophe. Ætna, Stromboli, Vulcano, Vesuvius. The sea-bed of the Tyrrhenean Sea may not be safe either.”

Estella Belucci leaned into the arm that Sandrine put around her shoulders.
“Why
do they want to destroy the Two Sicilies?”

“It's not that way around.” Conrad leaned back. The wood of his reversed chair gave a creak, under his wrenching grip. “The Two Sicilies are in danger because we have volcanoes here—and opera. Not because the Prince's Men wish to destroy us particularly. As far as we can understand, the local destruction we'll see here is irrelevant—”

A crash of voices objected, Sandrine's loudest. Conrad waved her to silence.

“—Except that it
is
destruction, yes!” He took a breath. “The Prince's Men want to make a blood sacrifice to raise God.”

Few of the company were Free-thinkers, and most were glad to go to Mass. Conrad saw that where his first question had been “how can you wake what doesn't exist?” it would not be theirs.

JohnJack glanced around for support. “A blood sacrifice. Like a Black Mass? If they do that, won't it summon the Devil rather than God?”

“I'm not the expert to speak to.” Conrad caught amused looks, since his views were no secret. “Truly? I don't think it matters whether you call it God or the
Devil.
They
call it the God they worship. King Ferdinand calls it Satan. Whatever they call up or create, last time it wiped out an island in Indonesia, and starved the world for a year.”

In the white illumination of gas lamps, the silence was charged with fear, speculation, awe, excitement.

“Most revolutionary secret societies would change the world if they could.” Conrad spoke into the silence. “If the black opera succeeds, and they get their miracle, the Prince's Men
will
change it.”

He did not find it necessary to say that they might not like the result. That emotion was clear on every face.

“Tambora was an experiment, to see if they could do what they wanted. They can. And now they will. If
L'Altezza azteca
doesn't counter what they're doing. If we don't stop them.”

Conrad stood, abandoning his chair, and paced across the boards.

“You can still back out.”

He stopped and swung around, confronting them.

“If you do, King Ferdinand will put you into safe custody until after the fourteenth. You won't be allowed to see or speak to anyone until then, but after that, you'll be free to go. I think it extremely important—” Conrad hit his hand into the opposite palm. “—
Extremely
important that no one is
compelled
to sing in
L'Altezza azteca
. If we're to counter the black opera, we have to be whole-hearted about what we do. This—this is for volunteers only.”

He looked around, meeting their eyes.

“Whether you're singing a star role, or painting scenery, you're just as important to the opera. Because every separate thing
has
to work, to make the whole thing work. Look into your heart and decide whether you can give everything to this opera. If you can't, please, don't stay here out of fear or ambition or misplaced loyalty. If you can, then say so, because
we need you!
—”

Conrad broke off, the rush of words abandoning him because he could find no more that needed to be said—and voices shouted, hands beat together, and the great cavern echoed with applause. He was stunned.

Roberto appeared at his side, holding a hand up as the volume of applause began to diminish. He projected his voice. “You have an hour, now. Then we'll hear individual decisions. Colonel Alvarez will escort anyone who chooses not to stay to a safe place. The rest of us will go up to the San Carlo, and begin on rehearsing there.”

C
onrad slipped away, strolling alone without aim along a Roman drainage channel that had served street-fountains in its day, and was tall enough to walk in without bending his neck. Reflected light from inhabited catacombs was dim. Two or three times Alvarez's men checked him, and, on discovering the stranger in the catacombs was Conrad Scalese, let him continue his peregrinations. He kicked at pebbles, like a schoolboy.

When he finally re-entered the main mine, Paolo was ticking off names on a list.

Is that people quitting or staying?

Luigi Esposito's white-gloved hand came down on Conrad's shoulder.

“Message from up top,” Luigi murmured.

Fear thumped cold in the pit of Conrad's belly. “And?”

Luigi's glance strayed to Paolo. His grin was a mixture of glad and rueful.

“Word from the infirmary. Rossi's awake. They beat him like a drum, but apart from the bruises, he's fine. The Doc says you can go up and talk to him as soon as you want.”

Tullio Rossi, conscious and bitching all the way, was brought on a stretcher under the streets of Naples, and settled in their cave-lodgings.

“I won't answer for it if he's kept in this foetid air,” the Royal Physician remarked, ignoring his patient in favour of casting a gaze around the dry aqueduct tunnels and the smooth-sided quarries.
“Surely
you haven't been sleeping here yourself, sir?”

Conrad winced as the man audibly dismissed the servant in favour of worrying about the master.

“There's no other option.”

At least, no truly secure option
.

The King's physician frowned. “Then air the place out at least once a day. If not, you may fall ill yourself, owing to the noxious vapours of the earth… Your man should be up and capable of work in a week. No need to coddle him; working men have much more crude vitality than gentlemen.”

I'd like to put
you
away from the “vapours of the earth,” Conrad thought.
Exposed on the upper battlements of Egg Castle, maybe?

He held his tongue because an insult to the Royal servants is an insult to the King.

Drawing the thick heavy curtains that served as the door, after the entourage left, Conrad muttered,
“Stupid
motherfucker!”

Tullio looked bad-tempered after suffering his day with the physicians, but that made a few of the stress lines in his face relax.

“'S good doctor.” His voice was not strong. “Just a poor excuse for a man. Alvarez's lot?”

Conrad realised that Tullio had noted the troopers of the King's Rifles guarding the passage outside.

“Don't think you have an advantage,” Conrad said carefully. He knew having guards would make Tullio see himself as weak. “The rest of the cast and crew have the same arrangement now.”

He set the kettle on the brazier.

“You're right, I've got no facility with invalids or sick-beds. But I can at least make tea…” Absently, while he poured, Conrad added, “The
best
thing I can say about the San Carlo dress rehearsal today is that Sandrine didn't break her ankle, she severely sprained it.”

“That good?” Tullio's scratchy voice was amused. “The English say it's an omen. Bad dress rehearsals, good performance. Now would be a really good time to become superstitious.”

“I'll get you a black cat.”

Conrad brought the tea across. Tullio sat up in the bed.

“Listen,” Conrad said. “We have less than a week. The Sun-Moon-Earth line up happens on the fourteenth, and we open then, ready or not. As for
you
… You're staying in that bed until
I
say you can get up!”

Tullio chuckled and groaned all together. “Gimme a day or two. It's all bruises, padrone. I ache from head to foot; I can take that out on any of the Prince's Pricks that show. Only this time they're not getting behind me with a cosh.”

“Maybe.” He was determined to watch Tullio's head-wound himself. “I'll find us something to eat.”

Conrad went out to arrange food. On coming back in, he surprised Isaura helping the ex-sergeant into his shirt and breeches.

“Oh… Conrad.” Paolo stepped back, cheeks pink. She looked less like a boy when she blushed, unless it was one of the Renaissance's androgynous cherubs.

Tullio finished easing his shirt down over his bandaged ribs, and shot a
challenging look at Conrad. “Paolo, you want to run along for a bit? I want to talk to your brother.”

Gianpaolo looked the most stubborn that Conrad had ever seen her.

She scowled, suddenly, as if something was decided in her mind, and whirled on her heel and stalked out.

“So.” Tullio folded his arms—although the fact that he was sitting propped up in a bed, and that he winced at the action, lost it some of its belligerence.

Conrad became aware he was still standing just inside the room. He closed the curtain fully, and sat down on the end of Tullio's bed.

Tullio said flatly, “Does the Master want to stop Isaura from nursing his servant?”

“You mean, am I going to pull the head of the family act, and object to some servant courting my sister? Protect my only sister's virtue?”

“She'd bust the bollocks of any man she didn't want near her virtue,” Tullio muttered, “and we both know it. All the same, I can't see any of your family happy about Paolo spending long hours in the sickroom with an unmarried man.”

Conrad leaned his spine up against the bed-post. He surveyed the ruffled, bandaged form of Tullio Rossi.

“Let's think about that, shall we, Tullio? Let's consider my late father Alfredo, who was—I admit—completely feckless. My mother Agnese, content to depend entirely on my Uncle Baltazar's charity while whining that
I
don't send her more money. And Isaura herself, who's far more comfortable dressed as a man than as a woman, and likely to stay that way. Not to mention her brother, the librettist, with his staunch atheist beliefs… Should I ask if you want
your
virtue protected?”

Tullio laughed and groaned together, one arm going to support his ribs. “Padrone, you know what I mean!”