by Mary Gentle
There were audible winces.
Conrad waited until the singers and crew grew quiet again.
“I need to speak to all of you,” Conrad said, letting his voice and the atmosphere of seriousness project through the mine.
He immediately held his hands up to stem the tide of questions.
“Well?” Sandrine looked at him expectantly.
Conrad leaned back against the ancient forte-piano. “To begin with the key point. We’re going to face more than ordinary sabotage while we rehearse and stage L’Altezza azteca, particularly up in the San Carlo. As you all know from what happened to Tullio Rossi, this could be personally dangerous to you.”
The clear acoustics of the mine shaft bounced each proclaiming voice back from the tufa rock. Conrad didn’t attempt to disentangle the cacophony.
They fell silent out of necessity.
“It’s time to tell you why,” Conrad said. “I won’t be naming names, yet. That’s so that if any of you want or need to leave, you can do it in relative safety.”
Conrad paused, thinking carefully what he could and could not say.
“You know the Local Racketeers and the Men of Honour don’t want this opera put on. In fact, they’re now taking a particular interest in us—with all that that means. We face more than usual sabotage. It could be hazardous, perhaps fatal.”
“Why?” Lorenzo Bonfigli demanded.
“I’ll be telling you all the details—but not before I’ve had an oath of silence from you. It’s difficult, I know, but you have to choose now whether you’ll quit or stay.”
Some dissatisfaction showed on Bonfigli’s face, and on others.
Conrad straightened up. “You already know that this is dangerous. If you didn’t think before about what that can mean, think about it now. It’s also true that we have powerful royal protection. You need to weigh it up for yourselves—and make the choice.”
“You’re admitting that they’ll deliberately target more of us?” Armando Annicchiarico demanded. The second castrato’s chubby features took on a shrewd look. “That they attacked your servant to send us a deliberate message?”
Conrad silently nodded.
“And the mountain?” Armando glanced around. “I’m not local to this city; when it looks like Mount Vesuvius will erupt and take the Burning Fields with it—!” He made a cutting gesture with the side of his hand. “I’m out. I have a family to think of.”
Sandrine cut in, with audible amazement, “You have a family?”
“My brother’s widow and his daughters. I’m not staying in Napoli if there’s a chance of an eruption. They have no one to support them except me.”
Conrad wrenched his mind away from his mother, Agnese, in the house in Catania; snow-capped Ætna looming over the city. “You don’t have to make excuses, Armando. Anyone can leave. Especially if you have responsibilities. There will be no recriminations.”
“No one would leave unless they were a coward!” Sandrine snapped. “People who were willing to face the Honoured Men only when they were just a name. And now that someone’s been hurt…”
“It’s not a sin to be scared.” The newcomer, Brigida Lorenzani, lifted her head out of her score. She was a round woman who dressed flamboyantly to illustrate it—today in a gold velvet gown and green turban—and having arrived late for her San-Carlo-contract-assured part, she lost herself in studying it. Now she observed, “Only a fool or a brave man crosses the Honoured Men. It’s not foolish to decide that one’s family take priority.”
Conrad kept his annoyance off his face. Merda per merda! I really don’t want to write Thalestris out; she and Estella have voices that work together.
“And you, donna?” Conrad asked politely.
“My husband and children are—quite coincidentally—visiting our other relatives in Cape Town.” Brigida adjusted the feather on her turban, and caught Conrad’s gaze with eyes that were searingly ambitious. “I don’t scare particularly easily.”
More voices sounded. Some of them were crew; others from the chorus. Conrad sat back to let them talk. Estella nudged JohnJack, and Conrad saw her draw his attention to the situation with a look. If it were not so serious, it would have been amusing to note how spines stiffened among the main singers, and jaws set.
Conrad let the wave of argument break and become repeating surf. He occupied the time with working out how Annicchiarico’s roles could be taken over by other singers or dropped completely. Since he had emergency plans for most singers, it took less time than it might. The composer agreed to drop a small scene that couldn’t be worked around. Conrad stood with his face away from the centre of the chamber, and wished his eyes were in the back of his head.
Roberto, with an air of incredulity, murmured, “You’re more agitated than they are!”
“That’s an exaggeration… I want this opera to succeed.”
It was true, Conrad found, and for more reasons than self-preservation.
A quarter-hour by his pocket watch and he asked, “Well? Decide now.”
Half a dozen of the chorus singers signed off the books, and one man from Angelotti’s crew. To Conrad’s surprise, there were no more.
He nodded to Luigi. The police chief, by the openings of the tunnels, signalled to his men. They escorted those who were leaving away, and faded into the gloom. Others would assure privacy here.
Conrad drew a deep breath, looking out over the faces turned towards him. He clasped his fingers behind his back, hoping it looked authoritative, and not that he was stopping his hands from shaking. “You’ve been told that you face the Local Racketeers, or the Men of Honour. That would be bad enough. In fact, we used their names to hide a similar but worse thing.”
Sandrine looked sceptical.
The effervescent Estella Belucci shrank into herself, clearly afraid.
Conrad allowed himself a look at JohnJack, hoping the bass wouldn’t regard him with betrayal.
Spinelli smiled and shrugged. “Well, if not who, at least tell us what we’re up against.”
Buoyed up with relief that he still had one friend—for the moment—Conrad asked, “Who here has ever seen a miracle at a Sung Mass?”
More than a dozen hands went up.
Before they could begin exchanging stories, Conrad went on. “Who here has seen anything at an opera performance that you would class the same way—as a miracle?”
He counted nine hands, only two overlapping with the prior group.
This is going to be easier than I thought.
Somewhere between two-thirds and three-quarters of our people won’t need to have opera miracles explained to them.
JohnJack said wryly, “Count yourself in there, Corrado—you’re the one that hit the Teatro Nuovo with lightning!”
“Well, at least you blame me now, and not God!” Conrad muttered.
Roberto Conte di Argente moved forward, his eyes hooded. Conrad saw wary hope in his expression. The bearded man sketched the situation in a few words. Conrad was not surprised when none of the singers or musicians, even those without personal experience, queried the possible power of an opera miracle.
No wonder, really, I suppose. They eat and drink notes and music more than they do the Host and wine at the Mass. They make opera happen. They know.
He watched Sandrine sit back down, decorously smoothing the ruffles of her afternoon gown. That action—and the curious but unafraid look with which she invited Conrad to continue—did a lot to restore confidence. JohnJack drew out one of the chairs for Estella to be seated; Paolo-Isaura sprawled on her piano-stool, chin on her hand; Giambattista Velluti clasped his hands behind his back, graciously conferring his attention.
Conrad caught Roberto’s gaze. The Count gave a small nod back, clearly indicating You continue. Conrad withheld the snort of amusement he might have given. Trust me to get stuck with doing this…
Conrad reached for one of the wooden chairs and turned it about, sitting with his arms resting on the back of it. �
�This afternoon, we’re going up to the San Carlo for the first of the dress rehearsals up there. Before we do that…”
He felt his smile slip, but he managed to look determined.
“Before that, let me tell you what we know about a political and revolutionary secret society who call themselves ‘the Prince’s Men.’”
Brigida Lorenzani raised a plucked, painted eyebrow. “Another secret society?”
“It’s more than just a change of name.” Conrad steepled his fingers. “The Camorra and the Mafia are crooks. Widespread or not, what they want is to be rich and feared. The Prince’s Men have far more ambitious aims—they’ll overturn the government of the Two Sicilies if they have to, or any other state. We know that.”
Conrad gave a nod towards Roberto Capiraso, letting the others know that the Conte di Argente was in the King’s confidence.
“The Prince’s Men are deeply rooted in the Council of the North, and the governments of other countries. They have spies everywhere, and they’ll kill to get what they want. They have members from every part of society—the woman who sells you fish could be a Prince’s Man; so could a Count or Prince; so could your landlady, your local police officer, your brother…”
Lorenzo tilted his head quizzically. “That’s not so different from the Men of Honour. Why is opera so important to these Prince’s Men?”
Estella Belucci chimed in after him. “What miracle is it that we’re trying to achieve? And why are they against it? What will L’Altezza do?”
Conrad nodded as if he had wanted to be asked just those questions.
“King Ferdinand put it best, when he recruited me. We’re not trying to bring about an opera miracle—we’re trying to stop one.”
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.”
CHAPTER 33
Conrad 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.