The Black Opera

by Mary Gentle

  Dark curved brows snapped down. “Does Signore Tullio likewise trust you?”

  “Yes, sire.” He did not even have to think. Tullio Rossi, putting his coat collar straight where the vehemence of the Emperor’s greeting had ruffled him, only gave a jerk of his head as if to say Of course.

  I suspect this is non-negotiable, Conrad concluded.

  “Sire, I’ll trust to your judgement.”

  The trusted companions—introduced only as ‘Philippe’ and ‘Étienne’; two Colonels, by their insignia—joined their Emperor at one end of the long table. Both surveyed Tullio, standing at Conrad’s shoulder.

  Conrad caught a glimpse of Tullio’s throat over the greatcoat collar. It began to glow pink.

  “Sit down, Signore Tullio; all.” The Emperor waved Tullio Rossi to the chair between himself and Conrad. “No—you will not serve. I will. A brave man deserves it.”

  It’s not every day one is served tea by a deposed Emperor, Conrad reflected, drinking the strong brew. He bit down on his curiosity as much as he might, but finally failed.

  “What did he do?” The words burst out of him. He looked apologetically at the Emperor. “I apologise, Your Majesty, but in my country, he’s said nothing of this!”

  “Well, perhaps that’s understandable. He is modest, to a fault.” The Emperor leaned back, loosening his stock. The shadows from the olive tree branches played over features famous on coins, if now a little fleshier. “As for what happened… Tullio Rossi is a hero!”

  Conrad saw “Étienne” and “Philippe” lean forward.

  “You remember Borodino.” The Emperor’s voice sank, a sensuous bass. He moved his hands as if he could shape it from the air. “Snow, mud, clouds from artillery fire, so many brave men suffering; the screams of horses, the trumpet calls of orders seeking victory, the stench…”

  Letting his gaze slide sideways, Conrad saw an almost identical depth of memory in Tullio’s eyes.

  “And this man—this hero—” the Emperor leaned forward, putting his hand on Tullio’s shoulder, “not only saved one of our Eagles in the battle of Borodino—no! That would have been enough—but he also saved his Emperor’s life! He found us wounded on the battlefield, and carried us over his shoulder. When the rescue party of Generals found us, he had wrapped the flag about us both, and taken refuge from the ice and snow in the way that only an old soldier can—in the warmth of a horse’s slit-open belly!”

  Conrad looked greenly at his tea.

  “He’d put my naked body furthest inside.” The Emperor reverted out of the imperial plural. He seemed to recall being a soldier again. “Tullio Rossi! Giving me his warmth, as well as the heat of the horse of my slaughtered enemy. And saving me, potentially at the cost of his own life.”

  Tullio stared down at the tablecloth, even pinker. Conrad felt positive that Tullio was not only attempting to look modest, he was avoiding Conrad’s gaze.

  “I never suspected him of being so heroic,” Conrad managed without a trace of sarcasm.

  The Emperor spread his hands wide. “I thought he died in the following battle, since he disappeared. But no! I would know you anywhere, my friend.”

  “I was captured.” Tullio looked hunted—although Conrad suspected he was the only one who knew him well enough to see that. “By enemy soldiers. They were going to shoot me.”

  “Shoot you!”

  More confidently, Tullio added, “But the building they were using as a prison caught fire. Cavaliere Conrad Scalese here rescued me. I’ve been acting as his servant since then.”

  “An honourable man! My brave soldier Rossi! And so you live!” The Emperor stood up, and again threw his arms around Tullio (who had automatically stood when someone considered his social superior did). The two Colonels joined in.

  Conrad took advantage of the—to his mind, quite unnecessary—embracing and manly kissing that followed, to gather his scattered thoughts.

  “Signore Tullio can explain why we’re here,” Conrad said, as things calmed down. “You’ll see we mean you no harm. Just the opposite.”

  Tullio Rossi staggered through the explanation. Conrad, smiling encouragingly, saw the Emperor was already convinced—had been, in fact, as soon as his brave soldier Rossi appeared.

  “If you accept the invitation,” Conrad added, “Tullio will guard you at the opera house, and drive the coach that takes you up the coast.”

  “Of course!” the Emperor agreed. “I think I have loyal men who can arrange a ship. I might have known it would be my good friend who saves my life again!”

  There was no getting away, even with their business done. The deposed Emperor suggested they have dinner there—which turned out to be a five course meal—and only the plea of urgency in planning the escape got them back to the ship before it left the island.

  Conrad leaned on the ship’s rail, on deck, waiting to see if his dinner would survive the choppier sea.

  When he was sure of it—and the cigar-and-brandy haze had worn off—he went seeking Tullio Rossi.

  He found him on a coil of cable towards the prow, faking sleep.

  Conrad joined him there, out of the way of the sailors, and watched the island vanish behind them, the red column of its fire reflecting on clouds long after they had sailed north.

  Before genuine sleep could intervene, he poked a solid finger into Tullio’s ribs. “Right. Now let’s have the real story!”

  The big man sighed and rolled over on his back, so that he lay next to Conrad, looking up at the emerging stars.

  “You don’t think I could be a hero?”

  “I know you’re a hero. This, though—it’s fishier than a three-day-old cod’s-head.”

  “You know I was a deserter from the army.” Tullio’s tone was as embarrassed as when he had first made the confession to Conrad that he was a wanted man.

  Conrad punched him lightly on the shoulder. It seemed to cheer him.

  “But,” Conrad frowned. “I assumed you deserted from our side—the side fighting against the North…”

  Naples had been, at that time, fighting against the Emperor as a nominal subsidiary of the Allies. They had afterwards fought for him, for a confusing few months, and reverted to neutral status a year or so later.

  “I did desert.” Tullio stared upwards at the Pole Star. “Eh… Twice. At least twice.”

  Conrad rested his head back against the rope coils with something of a thud. “Tell me!”

  The big man smiled at his clowning, but only a little. Tullio pushed himself into sitting upright on the rope coil. He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Borodino—that was a lot worse than he made out.”

  Conrad nodded. “If you’re not an Emperor, things usually are worse…”

  Tullio’s answering grin was wry.

  “I deserted from the Allies since we were losing, there wasn’t any doubt of that. There was a blizzard blowing, the battlefield was knee-deep in snow, waist-deep in places. I wrapped a fallen flag around myself to keep warm. Had no idea whose flag it was; didn’t care.”

  Conrad, remembering Maida, said, “I can understand that.”

  Tullio’s eyes were distant. “Then I tripped over. For the fiftieth time, at least. When I scraped some snow off him, it turned out to be an unconscious man in a Northern uniform. I couldn’t tell much about the insignia through the snow except he looked like an officer. But I thought that if I took the uniform and wore it, it’d allow me to escape through the Northern lines. By that time, I didn’t give a damn about either side.”

  The swift twilight gave way to darkness, and the constellations of spring above them. Conrad unconsciously shivered, thinking of the Russian winter. He leaned up on an elbow beside Tullio. “And then?”

  “I stripped the unconscious man, and shoved him, naked, inside the split belly of a horse. So that no one would find the corpse while I was putting the uniform on and blame me.”

  Tullio Rossi took a deep breath.

  “Then I heard the shouts of a s
earch party, very close in the snowstorm. Wasn’t nothing else to do. And nowhere else to hide. So I climbed inside the horse after him, and hauled the cloth over us so we wouldn’t be seen. Only they did discover us—but they said he was the Emperor and I was a hero…”

  Tullio shrugged.

  “His Emperorship gave me a battlefield promotion for it, when he came round. Said he wanted to make an officer of me, and lieutenant wasn’t good enough, so he made me a captain. I did have a medal, too, but I pawned it.”

  “Of course you did.” Conrad blinked. “Captain Tullio?”

  Tullio Rossi did the closest thing to shuffling that a man can do when he’s sitting down.

  “You out-rank me.” Conrad couldn’t hold back a spluttering laugh. “Captain Rossi out-ranks Lieutenant Scalese of the Cacciatore a Cavallo!”

  “Padrone—shut up.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Tullio looked at him from the corner of his eyes.

  Conrad gave him a smile.

  Tullio lay back and put his hands behind his head, gazing at the stars. “I knew I’d be found out before long, even if they did love me for getting their old flag back almost as much as they loved me saving their Emperor. So I took my chance in the following battle and deserted back. Got a long way, too, only the Allies arrested me for having left ’em in the Russias. They were keeping a bunch of us in that barn you dragged me out of. Me, I wonder if they didn’t set it on fire to save the cost of the cartridges to shoot us…”

  Up until a few years ago, Conrad could still distinguish the white scars where red-hot metal farmyard implements fell against his hands, as he and another soldier rescued the prisoners from their inferno. Now those scars have vanished into the general wear and tear.

  “What you did at Borodino was quick thinking—and war.” Conrad tried to make out Tullio’s expression in the gloom. “And I’m not sorry I got you out of that barn, if that’s what you’re thinking. No matter how many Emperors you saved. Captain Rossi!”

  A sailor passed, hanging lanterns at intervals down the rigging, and making it, if not light, light enough to see each other. Tullio, by the turning of his head in the semi-darkness, shot a glance at Conrad that seemed to ask for reassurance, even if not willing to admit it.

  If I treat him any differently I confirm his fears, whatever they are.

  Conrad prodded Tullio Rossi’s shoulder.

  “I do have one question. Which is very easily asked… What were you thinking?”

  “Padrone—?”

  “—You let me go into this, knowing I had to persuade the Emperor—without telling me any of this?”

  Tullio froze, and gave Conrad a pitiful “oops?” look. “I was sure he’d never remember my face!”

  Conrad grinned. “Who could be lucky enough to forget you!”

  Tullio snorted. “Thanks, padrone. Thanks. I think.”

  They stayed out on deck both nights, talking, and spreading their coats over themselves against the dew.

  Before Naples, they had a reasonable framework for the Emperor’s escape from the Teatro San Carlo on the fourteenth of the next month.

  “Once the lights go down, no one’s going to look at his box—with the curtains half closed, he can be out of there before the Sinfonia’s finished, and on his way by the time the first aria ends.”

  Conrad nodded. “He’ll only trust you to drive the coach, that’s obvious. You ought to take another man, it’s a job for more than one. I’d say, take Paolo—”

  “Except she won’t come.” Tullio leaned over the ship’s rail, gazing at the rushing green water. “You don’t realise, maybe, but she’s convinced she’s the only one can conduct The Aztec Princess and make it work. Don’t like the idea of leaving you both there if there’s danger of an eruption… I wish we could just take her. Except I know what she’d do to the man who did that.”

  The wavelets slid down the side of the boat like silk, taking the dawn’s light. Conrad breathed in the scent of salt, which is like nothing else. “The Emperor won’t trust anybody but you. As for Isaura… I could tell her the Conte di Argente insists on conducting his own first night. Il Superbo’s pushed himself into conducting enough of the rehearsals that she’ll believe it.”

  Tullio glanced up from the luminescent sea. “She might. He won’t. Put him in front of the pit and the galleries, throwing things at him, and he’ll freeze.”

  Because that’s not the way it is in salons or drawing-rooms…

  “Che stronzo! You’re right…”

  Full light brought green land, and towering cliffs, and the sea becoming a hard blue, as if the foundations of all were utterly secure.

  “And what will you be doing, padrone?”

  “I’m staying with The Aztec Princess.”

  Tullio’s gaze sharpened and he frowned. Conrad looked at him with more attention as the man seemed to brace himself, physically and mentally.

  He’s going to say something I don’t want to hear.

  At least things haven’t changed between us; he’ll still speak his mind—

  “I know why you’re staying, padrone, besides the libretto.”

  “Tullio—”

  “You asked me to find out when she goes out. She doesn’t. She pays private calls to bored wives of the local nobles for morning tea—but that’s ladies only. She doesn’t go to dinners or anywhere else unless she’s with her husband.”

  The big man squared his shoulders.

  “Do me a favour—and the rest of us. Leave the composer’s wife alone until after the first night?”

  CHAPTER 27

  A coach met them at the harbour, and took them to a closed meeting with Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily. It lasted a bare half hour. The incumbent of the throne of the Two Sicilies listened with increasing joy—there was no other word for it—and then shook Tullio Rossi’s hand as well as Conrad’s.

  “I’m well content with the arrangements for the Tyrant’s visit,” Ferdinand said as they stood to take their leave. “Amazed, but content. Well done! Commendatore Mantenucci will be in charge of rumours and dissimulation, closer to the time; make sure you speak with him.”

  “Yes, sire.” Conrad heard Tullio’s acknowledgement half a beat behind.

  The King rested his hand briefly on Conrad’s shoulder. His expression was cheerful. “You’ll find we’ve been busy here while you’ve been gone, gentlemen. One of Enrico’s men will take you where you need to go. Remember—we have less than three weeks to be word- and note-perfect.”

  “On my honour, sir.” Conrad, recovering his court manners, managed a creditable bow.

  Outside the Palazzo Reale, a second coach waited. Luigi Esposito, in a snappy black civilian coat and cravat and tall-crowned hat, ushered them inside. At the driver’s whip-crack, the team of horses moved off in a swift trot.

  “It falls to me—on the King’s now comprehensive orders,” the police chief of the Port district said, smugly, “to brief you about where rehearsals have been moved to.”

  Conrad slumped back against the seat. “You’re on board, now? Good! Now I can stop biting my tongue round you…”

  “And I’m sure it was difficult,” Luigi purred.

  Conrad gave him a look.

  He was not certain where they would go first—certainly not to the San Carlo, since it was next door to the Palazzo Reale; perhaps to his lodgings—but he was startled when the coach slowed to pick a way through crowds, and then drew up outside a baker’s shop in the back streets of the Mercato district.

  Luigi had a glint in his eye.

  Conrad refused to ask for information. “I didn’t realise that you were hungry…”

  “They bake very well. But they are, for the moment, closed. Come; I’ll show you.”

  The shop door had an ill-lettered piece of paper attached: Closed owing to family illness. The police chief let himself in with a key, and led them through the shop. For all the ovens had been allowed to cool, the place still smelled deliciously.

&nbs
p; “It’s surprising what secrets people hide.” Luigi opened the door to what was obviously a bedroom, at the back of the establishment. The bed had been pushed aside. The police chief bent down and gripped a rope, hauling on it—a trapdoor some four feet by three feet lifted up from the floor.

  In the darkness exposed, there were wooden steps going down. As Conrad leaned to look, a light came up.

  “Captain Esposito?” The voice from below was familiar. Iron-grey hair became visible. Enrico Mantenucci came into view, stooped from climbing the steps. “Ah, there you are, Conrad!”

  “Caves under the cellars?” Conrad guessed.

  “Close. Ancient mines, from the times of the Roman Emperors.” The Commendatore didn’t emerge further. “We can guard this place expertly. There are only two other exits from the mine-system: one in a domestic house at the base of Vomero hill, and the other far out in the countryside on the way to Posillipo. My men are occupying the Vomero house. Colonel Alvarez has his troops taking care of the Posillipo entrance, disguised as a camp of thieving antiquarians digging up the soil…”

  The man turned around on the steps, and held his lantern aside, so as not to be dazzled going back down.

  “Come on, Signore Conrad; no lazing about now you’re back from your little holiday!”

  Conrad opened his mouth as he was faced only with Commendatore Mantenucci’s back, caught a stern look from Luigi, and shut his mouth without letting the indignant protest out. Holiday, indeed!

  “Let us show you the rehearsal halls,” Enrico Mantenucci’s voice floated up. “And where you’ll be working from now on.”

  The wood that made up the steps was ancient. Conrad concluded they had been here some centuries, at the least. Aware of Tullio and Luigi behind him, he stepped down into a slanting tunnel in volcanic rock. Lanterns were hung at intervals on the walls. The temperature seemed constant.

  “The King had my people mapping all the places under the city. Catacombs. Quarries. Sewer-channels.” Mantenucci slyly shot a smile past Conrad at his subordinate. “I’ll let Esposito show you those.”