The Black Opera (71 page)

He added, “Apparently the same thing happened in the Dutch East Indies, when my brother died. Hence I listened when the other Prince's Men discussed it with Leonora.”

Conrad heard the faintest hesitation. He met Roberto's sideways glance, and realised the man had censored the phrase
my wife
.

Ferdinand began to pace and turn and pace. “I know of no way to anticipate what might happen. I will put the matter in the hands of my Natural Philosophers.”

He halted, raising a brow at Conrad.

“Sympathising with the
physiologi
, who always have the impossible questions to answer?”

“Impossible questions are always impossible until they're answered, sir.”

Ferdinand's eyes showed the amusement Conrad had hoped to call up.

“Regarding the practical matters we
can
deal with…” The King sighed, smile fading. “If the Prince's Men have been planning a performance
al fresco
in the
Anfiteatro
—or, I suppose, elsewhere outside—they will have had time in which to shore up ruins, move in scenery, prepare places for the orchestra, make a stage
habitable for singers. Because they appear nowhere else this morning. Unless they and their audience
are
on board ships.”

Conrad had an immediate mental picture of men—perhaps with their wives and whores—packing luggage for sea-travel, and coming by coach-road to every port in the Mediterranean. Ostia Antica, Marseilles, Istanbul, Cairo.

Conrad couldn't help a wry speculation. “Which is worse? If
Il Principe's
singers are not on a side-wheel steam-yacht, as Enrico mentioned, but a five-thousand-ton three-decker war-ship? Or at the
Anfiteatro Grande
—big enough that the ancient Italians not only fought elephants and lions and men, but flooded it for mock naval battles?”

Ferdinand chuckled. “You're a true bringer of joy, Corrado! If we have to fight the Prince's Men, let it be on land where I have an army. We don't have a ship other than the
Guiscardo
!”

Conrad recalled once hearing that, when the Two Sicilies had needed a warship, one had been loaned by the English Navy. Doubtless since taken back.

Down the far end of the chamber, bell-tower spies came and went, but no messages came over to the King.

Ferdinand seated himself behind his immense green desk, and signalled for an officer.

“Major Berardo, I want you to take another company of riflemen on the royal yacht. The
Guiscardo
will sail for Pozzuoli, and land you there, before it goes out to patrol the coast. You're to make your way back along the road and secure the Flavian Amphitheatre, and assist Colonel Alvarez there, or in the Grotto di Posillipo.”

The man saluted and left.

A long slow rumble and shake went through the
Palazzo Reale
. The ground grated, deep below. Conrad felt as if someone sharply nudged the chair he sat on—

Nothing was there.

Roberto glanced up from the score. “I believe they
are
getting more regular.”

Conrad reached over and took the bound score out of the other man's hands. With cuffs restricting his wrists, il Superbo's grab failed to retain it.

“You don't have time for that.” Conrad stood, and approached the King where the round-faced man rummaged through crumpled reports. “Sir, we can't be sure of stopping the black opera before it's performed.”

Ferdinand grimaced. “I know you, Corrado, you have some mad idea.”

Conrad held up the score of
Reconquista d'amore
. “A lot of this
is
the music of
The Aztec Princess
. Here, it's composed as it ought to sound. Or with the sabotage removed.”

Ferdinand opened his mouth to interrupt. Conrad risked
lèse majesté
and didn't permit it.

“I realise we have no time! Sir, I want to call together the orchestra, chorus, and principal singers, and rehearse the new versions of key points—”

“New material
now?”

“I've heard Nora sing.”

Silence spread out to occupy their end of the great chamber. A breeze from the open window ruffled at Ferdinand's brown hair. Conrad watched his gaze go inevitably to Vesuvius.

For the first time, the blue sky seemed flat to Conrad, rather than deep.
If I could see past it, I imagine I could see the darkened Moon beginning to rise.

The Sun, the Moon, and the Earth all moving to line up; gravity's implacable pull stressing the dirt beneath his feet.

“All of this
can
still be coincidence,” Conrad murmured, too low for anyone but Ferdinand to hear. “There's no proof—but evidence is stacking up for the ‘black miracle.' You told me yourself, sir; when you rescued me from the Inquisition—if the Prince's Men can't be stopped any other way, we must have the counter-opera, and it must succeed.”

Ferdinand's expression hardened. “If you try to rehearse new material and confuse the company enough that they fail in what they
could
have done—”

“If we change as little as possible, sir—the end of Act Two, the
ultimo finale; maybe
the Act One opening—I think we can do it.” Conrad added, “Allow me to have Signore Roberto to assist, sir.”

He knows the material. For both operas
.

“We're to trust Contessa Leonora's husband?”

If there was a way Conrad did not wish to think of his composer, that encompassed it in three words.

Ferdinand knows that, Conrad thought. He tests both of us. In his place, I'd do the same.

Conrad dug down into himself for honesty. “Trust him, for this, because he feels more betrayed by Leonora than—”
I do
. “—Any man does. And we
need
a composer.”

A chink of shifting cuffs made Conrad look around.

Roberto Capiraso rose to his feet. “I appreciate the compliment—and also the responsibility. If my guards can be unobtrusive, sire?”

Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily appeared as struck by the other man's composure as Conrad felt. “This will not affect my judgement of you, or the Contessa, after this is over. However, I will remember it.”

The bearded man gave a short bow. “I put myself in your hands, sire.”

Having assumed the Conte di Argente believed in the religion of his ancestors, Conrad now wondered whether it was that or a secular definition of honour that allowed Roberto Capiraso to sound so certain of his decisions.

Ferdinand inclined his head. “Very well. Conrad, of necessity, Signore Capiraso's guards will be present at your rehearsals; is that acceptable?”

“Find men who go to the opera in their spare time, sir, and it might even be useful.”

“I'll tell the officer that! Meanwhile—” Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily consulted his pocket watch. He caught Conrad's eye, and spoke in a tone of gallows humour. “—People put on an opera in—five and a half hours—every day?”

Conrad winced. “Thank you for that, sir.”

“I told you they were words that would come back to haunt a man!”

“Oh—consider me haunted.” Conrad tucked the score of
Il Reconquista
under his arm, made his farewells polite, and brief, and left the King's chambers with the Conte di Argente and two foot soldiers behind him.

They were not allowed through the indoor passage from the Palazzo to the San Carlo—it was still being cleaned in anticipation of the King's visitors—and so walked out of the Palazzo Reale by one door, and into the backstage area of the opera house by another. Conrad took refuge in one of the San Carlo's dusty, cramped side rooms.

“Ink,” he suggested to the troopers. “Paper. Wine and olives. You need to watch il Conte, I suppose, but there's another room across the corridor; we can leave the doors open.”

Roberto sat on a rickety chair with as much dignity as he had on the King's furniture. He held his wrists up imperiously, and the other trooper unlocked his cuffs. “Five hours… We should start!”

Conrad leaned his weight on the table, one hand flat on each bound score. “You've spent six weeks telling me it's not possible to stage a real opera in the time we have. Now you think we can alter one in a morning!”

The dark man gave a tired, oddly warm, smile. “I don't think it matters what
I
believe. If I've heard anything this past six weeks, it's from our professional singers—‘How long does it take to learn a principal role? Ten days if a comedy, fifteen days if a tragedy!' Then they boast about how they'll
also
be learning the season's second opera, at the same time they're learning the first.
And
a back-up work, in case the first fails with the public. Nine hours in a day learning the part, and another four hours of rehearsal! Up at six and asleep at one in the morning! According to your singers, Conrad, they can do anything except walk on water—and Signore Velluti seems positive he could do that, too.”

“I believe he'd try if someone gave him the opportunity,” Conrad said absently.

The remaining infantryman chuckled.

I know what it is
, Conrad thought, the illumination coming to him in a moment as he saw a likeness between the soldier and his prisoner that both would have denied.
Roberto's spent a month and a half in intense companionship with the opera company; they
—we—
are as much his comrades as would be the case in an army
.

“As for you, Conrad,” Roberto Capiraso said, imperturbably dry. “They tell me Signore Rossini was locked in his rooms by the impresario Barjaba, with only cold macaroni to eat, until he composed
Otello
. And for
Gazza Ladra's
Sinfonia he was locked in a room in the roof of La Scala—and that was on the day of the performance! If a man can write music so quickly, surely you can compose a few new
words?”

“I should have punched you more than once,” Conrad muttered.

The Conte di Argente choked back a loud laugh. It startled Conrad—and startled him even more to find he was glad of it.

The second one of the guards entering with writing materials, wine, and food; Conrad took them with thanks. The riflemen took up station across the corridor—the room being so much less crowded without them that Conrad stretched his arms with a sigh of sheer physical relief.

He set about turning both scores to a matching place. He didn't sit down afterwards, but paced as much as the small room would allow: three steps either way.

“As soon as we have a smooth transitions to new materials, we'll call people up on stage for rehearsals.” Thinking of what JohnJack, Sandrine, Estella and the others would say made Conrad flinch.

He pictured their faces and sweated at the danger of the next eight hours.
The rehearsal, then the performance, and if the Prince's Men have an attack in hand
—

Conrad came to an abrupt halt on the creaking floorboards, gazing around the dusty room as if it were the first time he saw it. “I'm an idiot!”

The Count, all
il Superbo
, murmured, “If I refrain from the obvious remark, will you tell me why?”

“You've written Nora's role—” He deliberately didn't avoid her name. Roberto Capiraso showed a flinch in his creased eyelids, but otherwise didn't react. “—Her role as Isabella of Castile, for a voice that can apparently span the ranges of bass to high soprano—”

“Not
apparently,”
the dark man put in.

“As soon as we have them started on rehearsals—transpose!” Conrad ordered.

“Transpose?
What?”
Roberto sounded openly startled.

“Everything,” Conrad said with grim certainty. “Begin with Act Four's
finale ultimo
. Go on to the opening chorus of Act One, and the finale of Act Two. If
I remember, that's between eleven and thirteen minutes of music. Even with what we alter, the time won't be significantly different… I want all the principal singers, and as many of the chorus as are capable of it, to learn those thirteen minutes.
All
parts.”

Conrad thumped a fist on each score.

“Transpose as much as you can. Male to female roles, and
vice versa
. Tenor to mezzo, castrato to soprano, bass to tenor—hell, soprano to bass! My
point
—”

Conrad interrupted himself before the other man could stutter his outrage:

“—Is that the Prince's Men
want us stopped
. Ferdinand has a division of the army of the Two Sicilies in Naples, ostensibly to greet his Imperial Majesty. Your guards outside aren't just to keep you from deciding to run, they're here to keep you alive.”

“You think we'll be attacked.”

“I
know
we'll be attacked! We're not under your protection any more.”

Roberto inclined his head, acknowledging the hit.

In the uncomfortable quiet, the distant echoes of voices singing scales and phrases could be heard; and Angelotti's crew swearing blasphemously; and the noise of violins, cellos, and basses tuning up. The company, all unknowing, at what they think is a last rehearsal…